


Shadows and Reflections

by Vevici



Series: On the Warden-Commander Vie Mahariel [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-30 02:58:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 87,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6406009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vevici/pseuds/Vevici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mahariel and Tamlen were inseparable since childhood. Where one goes, the other is close behind. Like Sabrae clan's very own Dirthamen and Falon'Din, as Keeper Marethari once reminisced. Though unbreakable as their bond was, it was not always stable. As both grew into adulthood, their relationship shifted and expanded; siblings, friends, comrade-at-arms, lovers. Perhaps fate would be kinder to them than it had been to the Elven gods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Birds and the Bees. They Peck and Sting.

‘Father’ was a word Mahariel never understood and never known. ‘Mother’ was a word she experienced, courtesy of a woman who had not borne her. ‘Brother and sister’ were words she spoke often, though never in the way they truly meant.  ‘Orphan,’ she had learned and accepted. Then there was ‘Tamlen.’

                Tamlen meant footsteps to the left, right, from behind, in front; mud cakes dropped on the elders’ heads; chalk scribbles on faces. Tamlen meant smiles behind stolen arcane scrolls from the Keeper’s chest; cracks of sparring swords and twangs of shortbows. Tamlen meant soft words laid on broken bones and bruised confidence; warm hands pushing higher, pulling farther.

                “You don’t call me lethallin anymore; Just Tamlen. Why?” he had asked once, after an entire afternoon of sprinting through woods.

                Lethallin. Clansman. Cousin. Brother. Mahariel had stared and shrugged, fought down the heat that had crept up her neck. “Is that not your name?”

                He had laughed then, golden hair swept up in the autumn breeze, eyes clear as winter stream. He had shaken his head as he gazed down at her and said, “Your timing for jokes is as odd as ever, lethallan.”

                Lethallan. Clansman. Cousin. Sister.

                That afternoon, Mahariel had learned that Tamlen also meant a ball lodged in her stomach.

 

That very same ball bounced inside her now, two years later, as the clan travelled south for the arlathvhen. They had come across Alerion clan three days ago, and since then Tamlen walked with the Alerion hunters.

                “You’re not very happy. I suppose you wouldn’t be that happy if you were about to be passed on to another clan.”

                Mahariel glanced at Merrill. Dark haired and small, she could have been Mahariel’s sister. In a few days they will officially be clanmates. From what Mahariel overheard of the Keeper and Ashalle’s talks on trading clan members, Mahariel will never be an option. A sign of respect to her father, they said; as the daughter of the previous Keeper and the last Mahariel of clan Sabrae, Vie Mahariel will never be sent to other clans. She glanced back to Tamlen, who waved his hands in conversation.

                “I’m sorry that you have to leave your family,” Mahariel said. “We’ll take good care of you.”

                She gave a tiny smile. The hand that held onto Mahariel’s forearm tightened. “You already are.”

                “Merrill, who is that? The girl with the shaved head.”

                Merrill followed her gaze to the tall girl Tamlen chatted with. “Oh, that’s Lenna. She turned eighteen just before we packed for arlathvhen. The Keeper said she didn’t even blink when she got her vallaslin.”

                Tamlen would be getting his soon. They were likely talking about the blood writing.

                “What will you choose for yours?” Merrill asked, swaying their linked arms.

                Mahariel shrugged. “I still have three years to decide. You?”

                “Oh, I don’t know! There’s so much to choose from. But I think I’d like a star pattern. Or a griffon. But I don’t think Keeper Nolan would approve. Will Keeper Marethari do it, you think?”

                 “I’d like to see that griffon, wings and all. If you say the right words, I think the Keeper just might be persuaded.”

                “You look like you know exactly what to say. Will you help me convince her then?”

                Mahariel laughed, hand flying to her mouth as the echoes called glances from the other Dalish; one of those was Tamlen’s. He grinned and winked. Mahariel smiled back. Lenna also looked at her, and Mahariel gave her a nod. When the two turned their attention forward, Mahariel scowled at the ground. It was only when her hand jerked that she realized Merrill was waiting for her answer. “Uh, I’ll see what I can do, I suppose.”

                Hand in hand as they were, it was simple enough to coax Merrill to slow their pace to a stroll. The older apprentices walked by them, clapped their shoulders and teased that they’ll be left behind; while the tanners from Mahariel’s clan passed them biscuits to chew on, smiles in their eyes and a finger pressed to their lips. Soon enough, Mahariel could not see Tamlen’s back.

 

They arrived at the heart of the Brecilian Forest the next morning. Something in the woods made the back of Mahariel’s neck tingle. Despite the golden rays that filtered between the green canopies high overhead, the feathery balls of flowers swaying languidly, and the crisp dew that glistened on the grass like diamonds, there was a heavy hush that hugged the trees. Without Merrill by her side the silence seemed so much louder. Still, Mahariel wandered among the squirrels and rabbits that darted in and out of the bushes, farther from the camp and closer to where she thought she heard running water. With the noise and movement brought by the arriving Dalish clans, the larger animals stayed away. Wide awake and restless in the early morning, Mahariel might as well take the first bath.

                Or so she thought. Behind the low-hanging branches, Mahariel first heard the splash of water followed by a satisfied sigh. And then she saw Tamlen waist deep in the river, hair pushed back and dark as honey, white shirt clinging to his lean ever-growing body.

                “Oh,” Mahariel said. To turn back would be suspicious. But to stay would mean talking to Tamlen while he looked like…that. Either way Mahariel was not given the chance to decide. A grin lit up Tamlen’s face, as bright as mischievous his idea was.

                Mahariel bolted back into the trees, the slap of Tamlen’s feet quick behind as he bounded after her.  It was a futile flight. Mahariel sprinted for only five seconds before an arm snapped around her waist and hauled her off the ground. She yelped at the sodden shirt that pressed on her back, as well as the rumbling from Tamlen’s laughter.

                “Care to join me, lethallan?”

                Mahariel flailed her legs, fast enough to make Tamlen wobble but not strong enough to make him drop her. Laughing now, Mahariel slapped Tamlen’s thigh. “To the Void with your insectile long legs!”

                Tamlen chuckled as he swish and swayed back toward the river. “Now, now, Mahariel. You know what hahren Paivel says about jealousy.”

                When they reached the water’s edges, Mahariel drew her legs up to stall the inevitable. “It’s not cold, is it?”

                “Weren’t you going to bathe anyway?” The water was up to Tamlen’s knees now.

                “No. I planned on sprinkling myself until I got used to the temperature.”

                “Too bad then.”

                Tamlen twisted to the side and Mahariel gasped. She told Tamlen to stop, that he would not dare.  She pried his arms off in vain. He kept swaying her back and forth, gaining momentum. Mahariel promised Tamlen would pay; he laughed. And then, with a final twist of his torso, Tamlen opened his arms. Mahariel sailed in the air a good ten feet - or at least she felt like it was - then plunged into lukewarm water. Bubbles burst from her nose as she sunk, twirled and carried by the current. She dug her heels on the gravelly floor and broke out the surface. Only to have a mouthful of water.

                Mahariel splashed water back at Tamlen, hoping to drown his smirk. She succeeded in getting water in his eyes which made him shake his head. His hair came loose over his eyes; Mahariel wanted to push the fringe back up. Instead she splashed more water on him. It descended into a battle from there. Mahariel and Tamlen slapped water into each other's faces, barely noticing the stray droplets that went up their noses or down the wrong pipe. Tamlen called her slow, and Mahariel taunted his aim.

                They laughed and played. Mahariel was five again, Tamlen eight. Mahariel forgot what 'puberty' meant and all that it entailed. At least for a moment.

 

It all came crashing back the following night. Mahariel, Merrill, Tamlen and Fenarel sat and waited by the bonfire while the Dalish clans trickled in from their respective camps. Wide eyed and grinning, Merrill and Mahariel craned their necks at the bright-coloured robes of the Dalish from Rivain. Although the outfits looked less like robes but more sheets wrapped around their darkened bodies, held by twisting glittering golden ropes. If they were chilled by Ferelden climate due to their exposed limbs and abdomens, none could tell. By contrast, the elves living in Antiva wore their cream cloaks, obviously missing the sultry air of the north. Underneath the heavy material, ironbark blades glinted and clinked against studded leather armour. Murmurs vibrated the air - greetings that ranged from warm to exuberant. A gentle breeze carried the aroma of venison, boar, cheese, and other spices as varied as the Dalish who prepared them. In time, the Keepers and Hahrens gathered on the platform by the fire. As one, they raised their arms to hush their kin.

                The fall of Arlathan came first, as always. Then the tale of the Dales.

_We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhen, and never again shall we submit._

               Hundreds of voices promised as one. Tears streaked past cheeks of the elders, fire burned in the eyes of the hunters, and goosebumps rose on Mahariel’s arm. A lump clogged her throat that made it hard to swallow. She shared a look with Tamlen and saw the bonfire raging in his blue eyes. Next to her, Merrill sighed, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. Mahariel hugged her close.

               The Dalish were reminded of the Vir Tanadhal, regaled with the stories of the Creators, and sworn to that one day they will take their homeland back. Children and adults alike grew silent. Even the crickets and nocturnal creatures were muted by the somber oaths made by hearts that beat the familiar song of loss, pain, and yearning. The wind matched their breath; In…out. In…out. Had it not been for the dots of smaller fires and circular mass of different colours and scents, one could almost mistake the near-four-hundred Dalish elves for a single massive beast that slumbered deep within the Brecilian Forest.

               In the darkness behind her eyelids Mahariel felt long calloused fingers enclose her hand. She wondered if somewhere across the land, someone else felt the same pleasant heat she did.

               Like coming out of hibernation, they stirred. Sighs at first, then rustling clothing. Mahariel opened her eyes in time to see Tamlen standing up, taking her hand with him.

               “Let’s get something to eat before I pass out,” he said.

               Mahariel nodded, allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. She then turned and did the same for Merrill. The excitement was slower to bring back after such heavy opening. But Mythal bless them for their effort.

               Mahariel did her part by pulling Merrill, Tamlen, and Fenarel into a dizzying dance which was mostly them holding hands while hopping in circles. Little ones ran in and out of the circle, seeing the whirling limbs as obstacle courses. When they were woozy enough to come close to losing their food, Mahariel opted to cup magically formed icicles into the back of shirts and robes. Ashalle was her first victim; Her guardian shrieked, flinging her plate of vegetables high into the air. She whorled on her, arms raised and shook a leaf of cabbage at her face.

               Mahariel ducked and swept her into an embrace.

              “What will I ever do with you, child,” Ashalle said with a chuckle.

               Mahariel moved on to Junar next. He was her closest rival as apprentices age-wise. Junar was stronger, bigger. But Mahariel was faster. She crept behind the warrior-in-training, who sat on the ground tuning a lute. A red-headed woman sat across him and caught Mahariel’s gaze. With a finger to her lips Mahariel crouched, lifted Junar’s collar, and dropped the ice. Junar exploded with expletives, almost crashing the lute into the ground, while the woman clapped in amusement. It did not take long for Junar to shoot to his feet and give chase. He snatched two branches from the bonfire stash, threw one to her, and spread his feet apart.

               Mahariel accepted his challenge. Their impromptu sparring gathered enough attention that eventually they were handed sparring poles. Bruises already darkened Mahariel’s left shin and both sides of her hip, and Junar sported a limp that forced him to favour his left side - his non-dominant side. Mahariel lunged, ducked low as Junar backstepped, and struck Junar's ankles. He landed on his back with a groan. Cheers and applause rippled in the crowd as Mahariel helped her opponent to his feet.

               She scanned the audience for Tamlen. A flick at the corner of her eyes pulled Mahariel’s attention to the edge of the firelight. Two figures blended into the shadows of the woods.

               A hard clap on the back made Mahariel stumble, only to be steadied by Fenarel’s hands. She did not hear his apology but she nodded anyway. Another hand pulled at her: Merrill. She gestured toward the food table. Mahariel followed despite the loss of her appetite.

              A nasty ball already filled her stomach.

              The ball meant jealousy, Mahariel admitted that night under the furs she shared with Merrill. Nose clogged with mucus and eyes burning with tears, Mahariel decided that Tamlen, at the worst of times, could be synonymous with fenedhis lasa.


	2. A Blanket Tucked Too Tight Chafes and Chokes

Mahariel’s breath puffed out like a mushroom as a wall of ice formed inside the room. Tamlen’s wide eyes flashed beyond the canvas hung at the aravel’s entrance before the wall closed off Mahariel’s cot from the rest of the world.

                From behind the glimmering wall, Tamlen called for Mahariel. She dove back down on the cot, face-down on her pillow. Though Mahariel and Merrill were out of his reach, his voice echoed over the wall. What was going on? Why did she run away from him? Were they alright? What were they hiding? Mahariel kept quiet. The lump still constricted her throat and she knew the clog in her nose would turn her voice nasal; any sound she made would betray her tears. What sort of curse had she touched that she had to stumble on every intimate moment Tamlen had? The image of Lenna pulling him into the woods was vivid as the present despite months passed; now she had Variel’s giggles ringing in her ears while Tamlen-

                Mahariel crushed her head between the pillows.

                “This is ridiculous, lethallan. Merrill, take the barrier down, please.”

                The cot shifted as Merrill sat next to her. Mahariel simply shook her head.

                “I don’t think that is likely to happen, Tamlen,” Merrill answered for her. One of her hands rubbed circles on her back while the other held her staff which smoked with frost. She was possibly confused as to why Mahariel was crying and why she had been told to keep Tamlen out. Yet she had been quick to do as requested.

                Mahariel reached down and squeezed Merrill’s hand.

                A growl and thud came from beyond the ice. “You’re crying, Mahariel. I know you are. What happened? Who did this?”

                So protective, so brotherly. The concern in his voice would have been comically ironic were it not for the complications it added to Mahariel’s situation. It would be much easier to direct her attention elsewhere if Tamlen didn’t care about her so.

                Merrill said, “Oh, I don’t think you can solve this one with arrows, lethallin.”

                “Do you know something, Merrill?”

                “Nothing, really. Just a feeling.”

                “Is she injured?”

                Nothing physical, but that was worse in a different level.

                “Hm…A shallow cut on her left foot. It’s nothing to worry about.”

                Silence finally arrived in the room. Mahariel craned her neck to peek behind her curtain at the blue crystalline wall. Tamlen’s figure glided across the ice as he paced. From the bulk on his body, Mahariel guessed he was ready to leave for the hunt. Had he been saying his goodbyes to Variel, then? Mahariel burned to throw her pillow at his silhouette; instead she pulled the blanket over her head.

                Tamlen sighed. “Very well, lathallan. I came here to tell you that I’m leaving with the hunters; I’ll see you in a few days. Merrill, take care of her will you?”

                “Don’t I always? Don’t worry about Mahariel, focus on the deer. Safe journey, lethallin.”

                His boots thumped thrice then he was gone. Minutes passed in silence. Merrill sighed, stomped her staff. Cracks echoed in the room as the ice wall broke apart, melting into thin air before any ice fell to ground. Mahariel sunk deeper into the furs as Merrill snuggled her from behind.

               “Magic sure is useful,” Merrill said.

               Mahariel agreed with grunt.

               Merrill hugged her tighter. “I can try it if you want, lethallan, but erecting ice walls won’t keep Tamlen away forever.”

               Sighing, Mahariel curled into a ball and pulled the blanket closer. She had three days, at least.

 

* * *

 

Mahariel was rushed into the aravel, half-dragged-half-carried between Ashalle and Merrill. For the most part, she could still hear Keeper Marethari’s calm instructions: there, lay her there. Get a bucket. A towel too. Ashalle’s knotted brows came into focus. Then simply gone. A wheeze rattled in Mahariel’s chest. If the bulging of her lids were indication, any second now her own tongue would be swollen enough to choke her.

                The Keeper’s cold hand swept under Mahariel’s chin, lifted her head to ease her breathing. Then the trickle of magic crept to her face. Feet scraped on wood, glasses clinked together, stone grinded against stone.

                “Oh, you look terrible, lethallan," Merrill said somewhere over Mahariel's head. "Absolutely terrible.”

                The Keeper sighed. She gave a string of orders to Merrill, who crushed and mixed dried herbs with precision. At the same time, the magic the Keeper poured into Mahariel flashed and thrummed in her skull.

                She felt the swelling subside, and greedily gulped air that she was allowed. Before long the pungent mix of herbs and roots permeated the air. Mahariel’s stomach roiled. She flinched, purely by muscle memory, at the touch of glass on her lips. The Keeper coaxed her mouth open, tipped the contents into her mouth, then pressed her lips together. It was drown or swallow.

                Mahariel swallowed the thick, bitter potion. Swallowed again. Twice more. The taste clung to the roof of her mouth like moss. Mahariel’s stomach churned, growling in affront. Then she heaved.

                Ashalle pulled the bucket in time to catch Mahariel’s last meal. Possibly her intestines and spleen too. Mahariel scratched at the bucket’s rim as the potion forced everything out. Sweat dripped off her nose, glued her hair to her temples. As her retching slowed, the Keeper patted her back, guided her back onto the cot, cleaned her face. Then fingers pressed on her forehead, and Mahariel’s eyes drooped to a close.

                She awoke to Tamlen sitting by her side, combing hair out of her face.

                “You had us all worried, lethallan. How do you feel?”

                Roots and petals swayed from the canvas roof, reds and purples and greens dancing in zigzags. They fanned sticky-sweet fumes on her face.

                Mahariel groaned. “Does my face still look like a pig’s rear end?”

                Tamlen was silent. Not even a snicker. A knife wound slashed the curve of his vallaslin across his left cheek. He tilted her head this way then the other. Eventually, he said, “It looks like the way it always does.”

                “Exquisite, then?” she asked, using the common tongue.

                 “Precisely.” No chuckle. No smile. “Have more care, Mahariel. My heart was a cough away from giving out.”

                “Okay,” Mahariel said. She turned her face to the wall. “I’m sorry.”

                Tamlen sighed, patted her hair, then stood. “I’ll call the Keeper. Keep resting.”

                Soon as Tamlen disappeared outside Mahariel slapped her hands to her burning face. The heat did not yet subside when the flap of the aravel snapped, announcing the Keeper’s arrival.

                “Da’len,” the Keeper said, took her wrist, pulled them from her face. She hummed in approval at what she examined. “You had a reaction to chestnuts. It seems you’ve inherited it from your mother.”

                Her real mother? Mahariel held her breath, afraid to prod yet eager to know. The Keeper continued her ministrations, applying salves on the still-red skin around her eyes and lips. When it had gone too long in silence, Mahariel asked, “I’ve eaten them before. Why react only now?”

                The Keeper smiled. Allergies sometimes develop, apparently, and that they can manifest in later years.

                “Like magic,” Mahariel said. “Why didn’t I inherit my father’s magic instead?”

                The Keeper said nothing; she was far too smart to take the bait, naturally. This time, Mahariel allowed the conversation to fall.

                There was no avoiding Tamlen after that. For the next weeks Tamlen kept a vigil on her. He went where she wandered off to, monitored the food she picked, and took to supervising her training in preparation for her rite of passage. Mahariel expected him to follow her when nature called. When she teased him about it, he had just walked away, blushing. The attention both grated her nerves and flattered her ego.

                Curiosity gnawed at Tamlen, however, and as Mahariel had feared, his concerns over her did not keep him from asking.

                “Why were you crying?” He stood on a tip of an old boulder breaching the dark soil of the Korcari Wilds. On his right hand he swung his strung bow.

                Mahariel pried the throwing knives from the target hung on the ancient oak, closed her eyes, turned to Tamlen.  “Am I not allowed to cry?” She raised her hand for another throw. Just as she cocked her arm, Tamlen grabbed her wrist.

                “The last time you cried was when you burned your hand because you stuck it in a lantern. As soon as your hand hit the water, you went silent.” Tamlen leaned over, frowning. “You were three. Whatever made you cry like this now has to be much worse than that. What aren’t you telling me?”

                _He_ wasn’t telling _her_ something either. That made them even. Mahariel glared up at him, twisted her wrist from his hold and sent the knife flying. It thudded right on the red dot, blade halfway through. Mahariel raised another knife. But Tamlen was there in front of her.

                The soft curves of his vallaslin contrasted the harsh grimace he wore. “Did someone hurt you? A shemlen?

                Mahariel scoffed. “No! Shemlen? Here?”

                Tamlen stepped closer, hands firm on her shoulders.  “Don’t shut me out.”

                She shook her head. “You’re being dramatic.”

                Mahariel shrugged his hands off, pushed past him. She stomped to the halla pen, stealing time to control her breathing; the crunch of leaves behind her told her she did not have much. She froze as she reached the picket fence. She itched to ask him about his relationship with Variel, if it was serious. Deep in her gut, she knew that would be a wrong move.

                “Lathallan.”

                And that was exactly why.  Without turning Mahariel said, “Won’t you let it be, Tamlen? Just this once?”

                The ground crackled as he shifted from foot to foot.

                “Not when it hurt you.”

                Must he keep saying things like that? Mahariel sank to her knees, feverish forehead pressed on the wood. If she could only fly away from the impermeable bubble that was the Dalish clan, away from the same faces she had known since her birth, away from the train-eat-train routine she had been performing since she turned thirteen. She needed  fresh air to clear her heart. Just for a day.

                Tamlen sighed. “How can I help, lethallan?”

                _Stop calling me that._   “I don’t know. You can’t.”

                 “Oh, lethallan.” Tamlen drew his arms around her and pulled her head to his chest.

                Mahariel wished she had the ability to summon an ice wall between them. But she doubted she would ever use it. Not when Tamlen felt like the hearth in an unbroken home.


	3. Two Shems Walk Into a Forest

Patrols were a drowse, the senior hunters said. The shemlens feared the Wilds; and like everything else that they did not understand, they eyed with thinly-veiled curses, boarded their windows against, and shut their eyes from, praying to their Maker for them to simply vanish. No sane shem would venture this close to the Korcari, they said.

                 That would make the two men leaping their way across the river either insane or desperate. Their footings were loud and sloppy in the hush of morning, but their bounds were long and solid on the rocks. Each had a longsword, wore simple leathers over woolen shirts, and sprouted hair from their chins. Not bandits. Not thieves.

                Mahariel signalled Junar, perched high on a tree further upstream, to target the one with the shaved head. Then she signalled Sareen to aim for the shorter man. Like Junar, she crouched on a great oak; her longbow allowed her to move further enough downstream to go unnoticed without risking accuracy.

                Sloshing their way to the bank, the men grumped at the eternal fog that crept along the Korcari floor. Mahariel leapt onto the boulder she hid behind, arrow knocked, waiting for the men to approach the bend. They had the sense to have their blades drawn. Mahariel drew her bow, tracking Shaved Head who walked in front. The creak of ironbark whipped them into a defensive stance - feet apart, knees bent, weapons pointed at her.

                “What is your business here, shemlen?”

                They froze, eyes darting to each other, either shocked to see an elf or to hear her speak the common tongue. Or both. Short Man frowned at her ears. Mahariel kept her attention on Shaved Head, adding tension to her bow.

               “We don’t want trouble, elf,” Shaved Head said. “We just want to find our brother before-” He cleared his throat, shook his head. To his left, Short Man dropped his gaze to the ground.

               “Why would he be here?”

                Again, the brothers glanced at each other. Flee or fight. Should they attack, Mahariel would drop them before they could run the distance to her. Should they flee, their brother, if he existed, would be lost and Mahariel could still bury arrows in their backs. Both seemed to raelize that, and they have not even taken Junar and Sareen into the equation. And so the humans remained in a desperate paralysis. With a sigh, Mahariel lowered her bow. Such was the humans’ relief that the beads of sweat could have trickled back up their brows. They lowered their weapons as well, though they remain unsheathed.

                “The Dalish do not want trouble with your village, either. Are you certain your brother came running to the Wilds?”

                “Saw him take off this morning myself,” Short Man said, arm jerking to indicate west. “Lost a calf during his watch. Took off out of fear. None expects him to shoo a wolf, but he’s a soft lad.” He rubbed both hands down his hairy face, his groan muffled.

                Wolves. Mahariel had seen three of them early in the morning. She had wanted to get a good view of the old Tevinter fortress from the tower, but the wolves were there, prowling around the base. By the Creators. “I might know where he is.”

                The men stepped closer to her, wariness forgotten. Mahariel doubted they even heard Junar’s bow draw in their eagerness for information.

                “You Dalish…hid him then?” Shaved Man asked, shoulders taut with anxiety.

                “No. He hid himself.” Mahariel jumped to the ground, strapping her bow on her back. Tamlen would tear his hair out if he heard her words. “If you remain here, I could find him.”

                Their heavy fingers tightened around the hilts of their swords, feet slid farther apart, hips lowered. “And how do we know you’re not calling more of you?”

                “The point of my offer is to not involve my clan.” Mahariel kept her voice and face neutral. “The sooner you have your brother, the sooner you leave.”

                Short Man’s nostrils flared, his eyes nothing but a band of shadow under his glower. Shaved Head also scowled, though more from concentration than distaste. “Why not just tell us where?”

                “You are not taking another step deeper into the forest.”

                A growl started in Short Man’s chest; Shaved head put his hand out to restrain him. “You’ll bring him to us?”

                “If I find him.”

                “How long?”

                “Two hours, at most.”

                Mahariel stared straight into Shaved Head’s eyes. She kept her breathing slow, hands lifted at her side, away from the daggers strapped to her thighs. She had hoped that her unmarked face would lessen the shemlen’s fear, but it seemed there was no way to completely assuage their suspicions. One thing elves and humans had in common. Mahariel waited as the two whispered, resisting the urge to look at Junar and Sareen for reassurance.

                With grunts and sighs, the brothers reached a decision. “We just want our brother back, elf. You say you can do that.”

                “I could.”

                Shaved Head gave a brisk nod, covered his eyes with trembling hands. “He’s name is Keven. We’ll wait. No matter how long.”

                Mahariel could already hear Keeper Marethari’s lecture. She added more force to her voice as she said, “Stay here. Keep quiet. Wander, shemlen, and I cannot guarantee your safety.”

                She watched them grudgingly settle under the shade, mere fifteen feet from Junar’s post. From her periphery, Mahariel caught the shake of Junar’s head. It was done. Mahariel took off into the trees.

 

Mahariel raised her hand against the early noon sun, squinting across towering greens at the fortress beyond. Like an old tooth, chipped and grey, the ruins jutted from the gums of the earth, unshakeable despite the many blows time and battle dealt. Ostagar.

                Mahariel shuddered. How much power did the Tevinter Empire must have had to control lands this far? What sorts of horror it was for her people. Summer winds buffeted the hair that escaped her braid, cooled the sweat accumulating at her nape. She shook the stiffness of her arms one at a time then resumed her climb. Five feet more. Hand over hand she scrabbled up to the niche that had been her secret spot for fourteen months now. Whatever the tower had been before, now it was only a forty feet rough-stone pillar, pin cushioned with bent steel that served for handholds. Mahariel had not been to the very top yet, but the niche halfway had an excellent view of the wilds and of the fortress. With a last haul, Mahariel dropped to the stone floor of her sanctuary.

                A shriek came from under the rugs she had brought in.

                Mahariel held out her palms. “Keven?”

                Silence. Then the rug came down to blue eyes; they were in danger of popping out of their socket.

                “Your brothers are looking for you.”

                The boy’s thick eyebrows drew down. He scooted closer to the wall, pulled his knees up to his chin. His eyes zapped back and forth between Mahariel’s ears.

                “I’m to take you back.”

                “No. No.” His head disappeared under the rug. “I can’t go back. Pa’d beat me.”

                Mahariel frowned. “Your father beats you?”

                “No. But he ought to after what I’ve done.” He sobbed, muffled by the heavy cloth.

                Mahariel scratched her nape. “The calf, yes?”

                Another cry. “I’ve done it. They know. I didn’t mean to let ‘em run off. He looked like he wanted out of the pen, so I let ‘em play. Then he ran. I tried to cath’em, but-” He broke down to weeping.

                Mahariel inched closer to his huddled figure, assuring him she meant no harm. He flinched from her light touch on his head; Mahariel dropped her hands. “The wolves are gone. You can come down. Your brothers are waiting.”

                “They’d only throw me back out. They’ll be mad, for sure.”

                “Worried, more like. I told them I'd bring you back.”

                Finally, the rug came down, revealing a snotty face. He squinted. “But you’re a kni-“

                “Dalish elf-” Mahariel stood up, strode back to the ledge. “-and I am about to leave.” She swung her leg over, foot planted solidly on a groove.

                She was two feet below the sill when a voice yelled for her to stop. Mahariel craned her neck up.

                “I’m comin'! I’m comin’.”

                Mahariel gave him a small smile. “You found your way up, can you find the way down?”

                He scrunched his nose, eyes scanning the almost straight wall. “I can.”

                It was well into the afternoon when Mahariel saw Sareen’s post. After the climb down, the boy had been too stricken to move at a decent pace. Many times Mahariel had been tempted to carry him on her back, but the boy shied from a mere look from her. And so they hiked, three feet of mud and leaves always between them. Sareen stood on her branch, arrow still nocked and aimed at Short Man. As they cleared the trees, the two men shot to their feet and the boy tore the ground to get to them.

                Mahariel slowed her pace as Shaved Head twirled the boy in his arms, face buried on his shoulder. Mahariel averted her gaze from his tears. It was only when she caught the scent of musk and sweat that she looked up at the three shemlen.

                “Thank you, miss,” Short Man said, red-eyed, hand on his brother’s shoulder. Shaved Head echoed his words.

                “We’ll not tell a soul of your camp, my lady. You won’t be bothered by our village.”

                My lady. Mahariel told them of the bridge several meters upstream. It was only when their backs were no more than dark specks that Junar and Sareen joined her.

                “I am not the one to report this to Namassa,” they said in tandem.

 

Mahariel found the head warrior discussing lacking craft materials with master Ilen. The tall warrior pulled her under the master craftsman's shop, stoic as ever, and told her to ‘spit it’. Mahariel did, not leaving a single detail while master Ilen listened. His eyebrows rose higher and higher as Mahariel talked, while Namassa stared down at her.

                She nodded when Mahariel finished, clapped her shoulder, then said, “Report to the Keeper.”

                Keeper Marethari was more engaged in Mahariel’s news, asking for more details and nodding along, glowlamp haloing her silver hair. Alhough, at the end she had the same lingering gaze as Namassa gave her. Before she could ask her about it, the Keeper sent her off.

                Mahariel dropped by the cooking pit to let Ashalle know she had returned. Her guardian pulled her onto a log and handed her a bowl of stew, bread, halla cheese, and an apple she had saved for her from lunch. “I’d starve without you, Ashalle,” Mahariel said, pulling Ashalle for a kiss on the forehead.

                Ashalle laughed and slapped her side. “You’re fine on your own, da’len.”

                After the meal, Mahariel spent the afternoon in the training grounds. She performed the motions of plucking an arrow, nocking, aiming, drawing, and releasing. Nock, aim, draw, release. Nock, aim, draw, release. Over and over until the shouts and clangs around her faded to the back of her mind. Only then did she string her bow and fired actual arrows. She fired four arrows onto the hay target, meaning to dislodge them with a new arrow so that there could be only four on the board at the end of the session. By the fifteenth round, there were six arrows. She had only begun the sixteenth round when a high-pitched moo reached her ears. It was so out of place that it slapped Mahariel out of her zone.

                “Did you hear that?” she asked Chandan.

                He scrunched his nose. “A cow?”

                The bleat came again. North-east. Could it be? Mahariel took off, ignoring Chandan’s, “Where are you going now?”

                The rush of the river filled the forest as Mahariel leapt over knotted roots and ducked under heavy boughs. The bleats were louder now, frantic and terrified. It whipped Mahariel to run faster despite the orange sheen of the sky. She staggered to a stop at a small clearing. Mahariel’s blood drained to the floor.

                A black bear broke from the line of trees, growling at the jumping leaves. Frowning, Mahariel followed the bear’s line of sight. She slapped a hand over her mouth to trap the scream building in her chest. A giant spider, and a black bear. The spider crept from branch to branch, backing the bear farther from a cave across the field. The bleats echoed from within.

                A lost cow, a giant spider, and a black bear. Unbelievable. Chandan had better not decided to come after her; He had better ran to get the Keeper or Namassa.

                Mahariel tiptoed to the closest tree, keeping her bow between the two creatures fifty feet away. She pressed her back to the trunk, heart shaking the leaves off its branches. Her knees almost buckled as a thud shook the earth.

                The spider was on the ground now, body pressed low to the grass, pincers snapping at the bear. Its body was just as big as the bear’s, but the eight long legs gave it the advantage of reach. The two animals danced back and forth, testing each other’s strengths. Hopefully they matched and killed each other.

                Mahariel licked her lips, took deep breaths, and sprinted to the next tree. Then the next. And the next. A dozen trees later, she reached the mouth. The cave burrowed underground, walls bushy with moss and jutting roots, big enough to accommodate either the bear or the spider without room for Mahariel to escape. Several feet from the entrance was a brown calf flailing on thick silky webs. She rushed to the animal, combed its flanks, and cooed to calm it. Its cries ebbed eventually, though not fast enough. Screeches came from outside, accompanied by thumping paws and excited growls.     

                “I’ll be back,” Mahariel told the calf, hoping it understood elvhen.

                She crept to the mouth, bow at the ready. The spider had lost one of its pincers and half of its front legs. The bear had bleeding gashes on its flank, though they were from the spider’s legs and not the poisoned pincers. Mahariel groaned. She snuck back to the thickest tree, climbed to the highest branch that could carry her weight and waited.

                The spider was losing, overpowered by the bear’s sheer strength. If it could just shoot its poison at the right place. The bear reared, claws raised, and crashed into the spider’s head. The shiny head slammed to the ground with a crunch. The bear roared and pounded its claws again. Mahariel licked her lips and swallowed. At least she didn’t have to worry about poisons or webs now. The bear sniffed the air; it headed to the cave. As if sensing its death the calf began bleating again.

                Mahariel waited for the bear to get closer. A meter closer. Two meters. Three. She shot an arrow. It lodged on the bear’s hide and it snorted at the scratch. Its great head turned in Mahariel’s direction, eyes spotting her. Mahariel fired again but it glanced its shoulder. Mahariel shook her right hand to rid the nervous twitch.

                Angered by her second shot, the bear bounded to Mahariel’s tree. It was so much bigger than Mahariel had thought. So much bigger. Strapping her bow, Mahariel clambered higher up the tree, grabbing at the nearest branches. She was seven feet from the ground when the branches became too thin for proper support. Mahariel braced her right knee in the junction of branch and trunk, planted her left foot on a bulge in the branch, and readied her bow.

                The bear reared on its hind legs as it reached the tree, slammed its paw on the branch. Mahariel pressed her shoulder into the trunk for balance. Ashalle would have a heart attack if she knew what was happening now. If Mahariel was lucky, the Keeper would be storming her way here, ready to scream her ear off.

                Another swipe from the bear shook the branch. The bear moved back, eyes not leaving the chipped bark of the tree. Mahariel went cold. She sighted along her arrow, following as the bear started at a run. Just as it jumped for the branch, Mahariel loosed her arrow into its chest. Pain lanced up her left foot and Mahariel screamed just as the bear growled. Three long slashes across her foot gushed blood, staining the leaves and dribbled onto the bear’s coat far below. Mahariel bit her lip, not daring to move her toes.

                The bear was down too, chest sticky with blood from the arrow it had broken in its fall. It looked back up at her with rage. Mahariel shifted weight off her injured leg. A crack made her freeze. Mahariel closed her eyes, clenched her jaw. With a long inhale, she glared at the white splinters on the branch, then at the bear. It was preparing for another jump.

                Mahariel threw her head back to will the tears away. She must have a clear vision. She must not waver now. She needed her arrow to be straight and true. Blowing air out of pursed lips, Mahariel raised her bow, levelled at the amber eyes, drew at full. The bear knew. Somehow it knew that this was the last shot. For either of them.

                Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

                With a snarl, the bear pushed its claws off the ground, arched its back as it raised its claws. It was roaring, but Mahariel could only hear her heartbeat.

                Bu-bump. Bu-bump. Bu-bump.

                Sharp yellow teeth, slick red tongue.

                Mahariel jerked her bow lower and fired. Tension snapped in Mahariel’s gut like a string. Her vision slowed as it followed the arrow pierce the roof of the bear’s maw, almost hallway through. The bear crashed to the ground in a great thump.

                Then the bleating came rushing back to Mahariel.

                Voices too, calling her name. She lolled her head back to spot a dazzling white ball of light bobbing toward her. Merrill’s shouts were the loudest of them, and the Keeper’s carried crisp and full into the air. After four breaths, Mahariel managed to answer them. It was only a minute before Namassa and Varanar carried her down the tree. They were asking questions, a jumble of words pounding into her ears.

                Mahariel waved them off. “The calf,” she said, pointing at the cave. “Get the calf.”

                Silence. Then padding feet.

                A cold tingle crept up on Mahariel’s left foot, and she sighed. She watched, dazed, as the Keeper wrapped her foot first with blue light, then with bandages.

                A sob drew her eyes higher. Standing to her left, bathed in the fiery light of dusk, Merrill shook, covering her mouth, green eyes swimming in tears. Was it that bad? Mahariel bit her lip.

                “I’m sorry,” she said. “All this for a calf seems silly. But that boy needs to have it back.” Mahariel dropped her eyes back to the Keeper, whose jaws were trembling. “It’s important, Keeper.”

                Another bleat. Varanar restrained the calf by a rope as it pawed the ground to get closer to the group. Mahariel raised her hand to it, and the calf gave it a lick.

                “Is a cow much more important than your life, da’len?” the Keeper asked.

                Mahariel lowered her head. “I acted rashly, Keeper. I apologize. But I keep thinking if those human brothers could get this cow back, they’d start to think differently about the Dalish.” Their silence spoke of their doubts. "'My lady'," Mahariel said in the common tongue. “When he called me that, in that tone, I felt like they accepted me in their world. For once they held something positive for a Dalish.”

                With a moan, Mahariel covered her face with a hand.

                Keeper Marethari sighed, patting her knee. “Very well, da’len. Since you have gone through this ordeal already, we might as well see it to the end.”

                The Keeper ordered Merrill, Varanar, and the other hunters Mahariel didn’t even notice were there, to take the bear corpse back to the camp. She gestured for Namassa to stay, however. The head warrior pulled Mahariel to her feet; arms snug on her waist as she half-carried Mahariel’s weight. Whispering into her hands, the Keeper summoned a wisp. It bobbed on her palm, spinning as it received its orders. Then it flew high into the bruising sky as it darted here and there. It spun once, then shot between the trees.

                The first stars twinkled in the sky when Mahariel, Keeper Marethari, and Namassa found the shemlen. The three were preparing camp when the calf mooed. Heads snapped up to them, all wide eyed and slack-jawed. The Keeper released the calf, which ran into the boy’s arms. Shaved Head and Short Man glanced at each other, and Mahariel would have laughed had her strength not been sapped. The men came forward, eyes flicking to Namassa then to the Keeper. They settled on Mahariel as they bowed.

                “Thanks, again, my lady,” Short Man said.

                Shaved Head turned to Keeper Marethari and said, “I promised the young lady that your camp will be safe, my lady. None will chase you from here.”

                The Keeper smiled, bid them a safe journey, and the three of them melted back into the woods. Throughout the walk back to the camp, Namassa observed Mahariel again, with that same pensive look. Even the Keeper’s eyes were on her.

                Mahariel kept her eyes forward, eager to get to bed. But the clamour of voices pressed on her as she was carried into camp.

                I wish I signed up for her patrol, the senior hunters said around the fire. Didn’t it frighten her? Meeting shemlen, and then fighting a black bear? Sounded like one of the old stories. It was a giant spider, others said. No, both. Patrols were a drowse, the hunters said, unless you’re with Mahariel.


	4. A Start of Something

Movement never ceased in the Dalish camps. There were always tents to repair, blades to be sharpened, food to cook, wheels to replace. Footsteps split twigs even before dawn, by noon laughter and yelled instructions spooked little birds from their nests, at night shadows flickered beyond the campfire. Even the elderly had cloaks to sew or grandchildren they hobbled after. Then there was the never-ending wandering itself. Unexpectedly, it was this that had been put to a hold.

                Just as Sabrae clan lingered southwest of Ostagar, nestled between the woodline of the Korcari Wilds and the tips of the Brescilian Forest, Mahariel was restricted inside the aravel. Imprisoned, more like. Partly due to her wounded foot, mainly because of her recent rash actions. Brave and foolish, Namassa had said, to attack a black bear _and_ a giant spider alone. Before Mahariel could correct the facts the Keeper had clicked her tongue at her and said she would rather risk two shemlens coming into the forest than lose one of her clan. Ashalle had been in a panic at the sight of Mahariel after the fight and she had been the one to suggest her confinement until her foot healed, plus five days thereafter.

                It had been three days; Mahariel’s left foot burned, throbbed, and itched. She was ready to tear her hair out for the oil it accumulated; she asked each morning to be allowed to bathe, but the ruses she had played times before toughened Ashalle. She had even taken the books Mahariel borrowed from the Keeper and Elder Cygan.

                “It is a punishment, Vie.” The use of her first name told Mahariel she will not get her way this time. “Not a vacation from chores or training. You won’t have visitors, either.” Then she had walked out, lyre and books piled on her arms.

                Not that it stopped Fenarel and Tamlen from sneaking in. Fenarel had already squeezed into the window the morning of the first day, with grapes, news of Tamlen’s expected return, and a hundred questions about the fight.

                “They are talking about considering this as your rite,” Fenarel had said. “Namassa…”

                He didn’t have time to finish his sentence; footsteps and the clinking of fork and spoon neared the door. Fenarel popped out the window just as Ashalle came in with a tray of food.

                This morning, her cup of juice delivered a message. Mahariel fished the enchanted paper from her pillow. We’ll talk tonight, it read. Clearly by Tamlen’s hand. Mahariel twisted in her cot; the sun was taking its time to set. She listened to the snap of laundry, the chiming leaves, and the snorts of halla farther in the distance. If she concentrated, her ears picked the thud of arrows hitting their targets, sometimes a yelp that came with a weak block. Mahariel flicked her toes, testing. A twitch was all she could do without pulling the stitches. She stared up at the green canvas breathing in a gust of wind. The clan should head north soon else they freeze in the Wilds. Mahariel should get moving soon else her muscles stiffen.

                In the late afternoon, the Keeper shook her from a nap to change her bandages. Mahariel leaned on the wall, leg suspended beyond the cot by a stool. Her eyes remained closed as Keeper Marethari dabbed a cool cloth on her foot. Mahariel flinched at each contact, imagining the threads coming loose, along with her flesh and tendons and- Mahariel shook her head.

                “Does it hurt, da’len?” the Keeper asked.

                “Sore, itchy, and feverish. The pain comes if I move, Keeper.”

                “Often, then.” She applied brown tangy salve on the wound to numb and disinfect. Unfortunately, that was all the Keeper would do. Keeper Marethari had closed the severed arteries and mended the tendons to prevent permanent damage; but the muscles and skin would have to heal on their own. This too was part of her punishment. In Keeper Marethari’s mind, at least. For a hunter, scars won from impossible battles were signs of strength, badges worn with pride. Mahariel bit her lip. Was this her trophy for her rite of passage, then? Was she to be placed under a mentor? Mahariel reigned in the bubbles rising in her stomach.

                As the Keeper wrapped a new bandage, the wind wheezed under the closed window on the adjacent wall, carrying with it the strong scent of game.  Mahariel lifted her nose. “That is not venison.”

                The Keeper chuckled. “I told them they were too close.”

                Eyes wide, Mahariel whispered, “The bear?”

                “For tomorrow night, yes. It was supposed to be a secret; but I’m sure you can act surprised when the time comes. Da’len? You have gone pale, child.” She placed her hand on her forehead, confirmed Mahariel did not have a fever, and raised an eyebrow.

                “It’s not the ceremony, is it Keeper?” Mahariel asked with what little voice her dry throat dragged out.

                The Keeper folded her hands on her lap, watching Mahariel behind lowered eyelids. “I thought you would be pleased by the news. You have trained just as vigorously as the others and, intentionally or not, you have killed a bear and brought back its pelt. You completed your rite of passage as a hunter, proven that you can survive the odds life will bring you. Or do you think your accomplishment was a stroke of luck?”

                Mahariel shrugged. “I find it hard to believe, Keeper, and I was there. I was lucky I didn’t have to fight both the spider and the bear. I was lucky that the branch didn’t break. It's an endless list.”

                Keeper Marethari sighed, laid her palms on her knees, and pushed herself to her feet. “Luck is if the creatures had killed each other, leaving you to get the calf without having to sweat and bleed for it.” She made to move to the door but paused as Mahariel caught her hand.

                “I don’t want the vallaslin, Keeper.” Mahariel shook her head. “I’m not ready.”

                The leader of Sabrae clan bent down and placed a kiss on her forehead. Her warm breath fanned over Mahariel as she said, “Then the vallaslin will wait, da’len.”

 

As the glowlamp revealed the fibres and nicks of the wooden walls, and outlined the folds of the canvas roof with thick black lines, Tamlen sauntered in through the door. Mahariel pushed herself up on her elbow, mouth open at his boldness.

                “It may be dark out, but Ashalle feels it when that door opens.”

                With a slow, wide smile, Tamlen scanned her, eyes pausing on her foot. “She is occupied with softening that bear of yours.” He grabbed the stool, planted it by Mahariel’s cot. The glint in his eyes was the same one he had at ten, scooting closer to hahren Paivel, Mahariel at his side. “They said you battled giant spiders alongside a bear.”

                “No, no. It was me and a spider against the bear. According to Fenarel.”

                Tamlen chuckled. “That makes sense. You wouldn’t cook an ally, would you?”

                Mahariel dropped back on her pillow, rolling her eyes. “The gossips are getting worse each day.”

                He squinted at her, chin rested on his palm. “Twist that bun any tighter and you’ll stretch your forehead. It’s big enough as it is.”

                Mahariel gasped, hand flying to her forehead. Tamlen threw his head back in laughter, hands holding his side as if to keep himself together. She had thought the bun would hide the sorry state of her hair. Clearly it showed more forehead in the process. Mahariel tore the leather strap from her hair and threw it at Tamlen’s face.

                “Ow,” he said, still giggling.

                Mahariel watched him until his fit of amusement ebbed. By the Creators, his laugh was contentment itself.

                “It’s good to know your aim is flawless, as always. How about the rest of you?”

                Mahariel licked her lips, ran her fingers on Tamlen’s cheek, drew her eyebrows together, and pouted. “I’m afraid...”

                “Lethallan.” Tamlen’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He gripped her hand and leaned closer.

                "Another day here, I’m afraid I’ll grow fat and limp like an old man’s balls.”

                Silence rang. Then Tamlen’s eyes popped. He buried his face on Mahariel’s stomach, which shook with restrained laughter.

                “That was cruel, lethallan. I thought- ugh,” he said, voice garbled. He thumped a fist on his chest.

                “There, there.” Mahariel patted his head, his short hair poking between her fingers. “I’ll manage being cooped in here. But I am tired of doing nothing; what I need is a proper bath.”

                Tamlen lifted his red face. “I’d offer to take you to the river, but I need your apology first.”

                Mahariel scoffed. “Take me to the river, and then what? Are you just going to throw me in? Or do you plan on bathing me?”

                Tamlen’s face went slack.

                Dread Wolf take her. Mahariel licked her lips as her brain tore itself apart in search for a way to wave away the awkward tension. Face burning, Mahariel stared at the ceiling. “By the Creators, my hair needs washing,” she said. She added a whine to her words, it helped that it was not completely fake.

                “I can do it,” Tamlen said, straightening in his seat. “I could carry in a basin, at the very least.”

                The muscles on Mahariel’s back relaxed, and she eased down on her cot. “Ashalle will notice right away. Then we’d be in more trouble.”

                “When did that stop us?”

                Mahariel smiled. “Go get the tubs.”

 

                “This is not comfortable. At all,” Mahariel said. Since the aravel only allowed two feet between the wall and the foot of her bed, Mahariel had to angle herself on the cot. Her nape and part of her shoulder blades were propped on the stool, while the length of the cot bit across the middle of her back. Her good leg she leaned on the wall and the injured one she stretched to the side. Behind her, Tamlen snickered. He massaged the soap suds into her skull with his fingertips, occasionally ran his fingers through the length of her hair to rid the tangles.

                Mahariel closed her eyes, sighing. Perhaps it was not a good idea to let Tamlen wash her hair. His languid touches were too relaxing, too hard to forget, too addicting. “Do you know,” Mahariel asked, “what they’re planning tomorrow night?”

                “A surprise.”

                “What kind?”

                “A failed one.”

                “Tamlen.”

                He chuckled. “You already know, lethallan. Pretend that you don’t; I still won’t tell.”

                “You think it fair? I didn’t hunt for it. Just came across it.”

                “Did your arrow also just happen to stick through the roof its maw?”

                Mahariel crossed her arms with a humph.

                “This is what every apprentice is waiting for, lethallan,” Tamlen said, trickling water over her head. He smiled at Mahariel’s shoulder curling as the droplets tickled her. “It was your speed that outmanoeuvred your enemy; it was your quick thinking that bought you the upper hand; it was your steady aim that sealed your victory. It doesn’t matter if you went looking for it, what does is that you reacted and succeeded. Reacting appropriately is what we hunters need to learn.”

                Mahariel stared, dumbstruck. When had Tamlen become so mature? Or had he always been and she never noticed?

                “What?” Tamlen asked, wringing water from her hair.

                “Nothing.”

                Tamlen wrapped her head with a towel before he snuck out to throw the water and return the basins. Alone, his words bounced off the walls, waiting to be grasped in Mahariel’s hands. She only had to open her palm and accept them. But it was the thought of owning the words that kept Mahariel’s fingers clenched.

                “You’ve grown.”

                Mahariel’s eyes snapped to Tamlen, leaning a shoulder on the threshold. His head almost touched the ceiling. “What?”

                “You’ve grown it, your hair.” He sat on the cot behind her, pulled her hair, and combed his fingers through it. “It reaches your waist.” He poked her lower back.

                Mahariel swatted his hand. “I plan on keeping it that way.”

                “It’s not heavy?”

                “It’s not that thick.”

                He ran his hands under the hair and let it spread on her back. “I like it out of the braid,” he said.

                Heat radiated from Mahariel’s neck. “Sad that it gets in the way of shooting arrows and killing things.”

                Tamlen hummed, but otherwise stayed quiet. He spotted her hairbrush and continued combing her hair until it began to dry.

                “I missed you.”

                “I missed you too.”

                Mahariel cocooned herself in the blankets that night, but the aravel no longer felt confining. The Dalish camp sighed and rustled around her, always present but no longer pressing. For fourteen months now, the camp settled in one place. For three days Mahariel had not set foot outside. But something shifted. What exactly, Mahariel did not know. Only that it did. And it will force her to move soon.


	5. Severed From the Heart

Ages of culture, history, and knowledge pulsed within the Keeper’s aravel; Palpable as the dry paper under Mahariel’s fingertips, ethereal as the gauzy remnant of a violet robe folded inside a padded chest, ancient as the magic thrumming in ruby rings, ironbark necklaces, and emerald circlets tucked into velvet-lined golden boxes.  In each artefact that covered the shelves of the second largest aravel in camp was a story, a person, a life; summarized in excavated objects that outlived their owners. This collection of recovered artifacts was the biggest mosaic of the Dales Mahariel had ever seen, and this is but a fragment of the fallen city of Arlathan.

                Goosebumps rose on Mahariel’s arms as she read the tome that belonged solely to Sabrae clan; it was the only ancient book that adult members could borrow freely. One and a half foot long and eight inches thick, it rarely left its safe. Mahariel turned the paper to the illuminated page telling of the clan’s founding, months after the survivors fled the Dales. Lady Sabrae shone in golden armour, chin up, amber two-handed sword planted between her feet. At her sides were two wolves. On the next page were two warriors clad in a similar armour, though theirs were green. They held their swords up against their chests, blades pressed to their forehead. Co-founders of the clan: Iseranni Talas and Alacen Mahariel.

                Vie Mahariel ran the pads of her fingers over the dark long braids bound high on Alacen’s head, then down to his challenging lilac eyes. Did Theleon Mahariel share the same small nose? Same pouting lips? Was anything from Dihari reflected in her?

                “You never tire of that book.”

                Mahariel raised her head at Ashalle’s voice. “Why would I?” Her guardian followed Keeper Marethari and Namassa into the room, smiling reminiscently. Mahariel straightened in her stool as her seniors took their places around her: Ashalle sat across from Mahariel, the Keeper sat behind the desk, and Namassa stood to her right. Usually, such formal meetings ended with extra time cleaning the halla grounds. Today, it seemed to conclude her apprenticeship.  Namassa clasped her hands behind her back, nodded to her. It was all the confirmation Mahariel needed.     

                Mahariel bowed her head to her new mentor. “I will work to meet your expectations, hahren.”

                “I am sure you will, da’len. But before you decide, you should first know the entirety of what you are agreeing to. ”

                Mahariel raised an eyebrow the same time Ashalle turned questioningly at the Keeper. The latter twined her fingers on her desk, lips pursed as she levelled her gaze on Ashalle.

                “The training Namassa offers is particular to her apprentice,” Keeper Marethari said, turning to Mahariel. “Yours is especially unusual in that it breaks a tradition upheld since the formation of our clan. But I see the advantage of the lessons proposed, which is why I have given my permission for Namassa to proceed.”

                Breaking a few rules brought a few good things; Mahariel’s budding ability to read elvish came from sneaking scrolls out of the storage aravel, after all. Yet there was the manner in which the Keeper had lingered in the word ‘tradition’ that lodged a thorn in Mahariel’s mind. The word held a certain gravity that sagged the Keeper’s shoulders; even the oft-pristine bun on her head seemed to droop, in danger of unravelling completely. Unease and excitement clashed in Mahariel’s gut.

                “And Mahariel can refuse if she wants?” Ashalle asked, looking between the Keeper and Namassa. Worry creased the corners of her eyes. 

                “She’d have to refuse the mentorship itself,” Namassa said.

                Mahariel traced the vines curling on the leather cover of the tome pressing on her lap. It would be foolish not to accept Namassa’s offer. Apprentices worked as a group to master their craft; different methods for different personalities, yes. But they were time-limited to focus on that single craft. This was Mahariel’s chance to further her skills and branch out. In a way, this mentorship was the wings she needed to fly above the Dalish nest. The hard lines on the Keeper’s face gave her pause, however.

                What was the catch? Mahariel raised her eyes to Namassa. “I’d like to hear more, hahren.”

                Namassa raised her chin in what appeared to be a sign of approval and the Keeper dragged a breath. Ashalle's eyes flicked from one person to the next.

                Poisons, herbs, traps, Namassa listed her intended subjects. Archery, swordsmanship using a variety of arms – single-handed, dual blades, polearms, and sword-and-shield. Wielding a shield would be highly inconvenient for Mahariel’s build of course, but Namassa would have her try.  There were to be lessons in history, geography, wildlife. Languages and strategy. These were taught to all Dalish, but only enough to ensure survival. It was a continuing study, the Keeper commented. Language change with time, and strategies improved and failed. History was rewritten and relearned. It would be a never ending lesson.

                “We Dalish do not have the leisure to sit for hours and pore through whichever books we have,” Namassa said. “But at the same time we understand the value of what knowledge we can grab. You learn faster by practice, no?”

                Mahariel blinked. “I suppose so, hahren. I’ve never given it thought.”

                Namassa nodded along with her words. “You do.”

                Keeper Marethari leaned back on her chair, folding her hands on her lap.

                Here it was. Mahariel gripped the edges of the book tighter, pulse rising higher and higher up her throat.

                “Which is why,” Namassa said, back straight and looming over Mahariel. “I’ll be taking you deeper into the Korcari; I will guide you with technicalities, techniques, and the forest will provide their applications.”

                “What?” Ashalle snapped, head rearing in disbelief.

                Mahariel was about to ask the same thing were it not for her jaw locking itself. The Korcari Wilds was home to many dangers; great wolves, the Chasind, poisonous plants, poisonous creatures, giant beasts, giants. The Witch of the Wilds. Most would claim the last one was mere legend, but those murder stories surely came from somewhere. Whatever the case, one consistency is that the secrets of the Korcari Wilds remained such only because those who venture into its heart seldom left. Those who managed would not speak of it.

                “We’ll be hiking there every day. To train,” Mahariel said slowly when her muscles relaxed a fraction.

                Namassa shook her head. “No. We’ll camp there. Just the two of us.”

                “What?” Mahariel shot to her feet, book crashing to the ground. Pain jolted up her left leg and she slammed back down on the stool. Fenedhis. “That’s madness. Not to insult your skills, hahren, but isn’t that too risky?”

                “I agree,” Ashalle said, she rose to her feet, palms slapping the desk. “That is madness.” She glared at the Keeper next. “Why would you allow this, Keeper? What if something were to happen to them?”

                Keeper Marethari closed her eyes, took a breath, and then looked calmly at Ashalle. “They will not go beyond a ten kilometer radius, Ashalle. That will allow us two hours at most to get to them if need be. In addition, a bird will be sent every three days to assure their safety. Other than that the clan will leave Mahariel and Namassa on their own.”

                Two hours. All it would take to pass to the Beyond were a few seconds. Mahariel planted her elbow on the desk, fingers smoothing the knot on her forehead.  There was no denying that she took rash actions from time to time, but was she willing to go this far? And for what? Had she not wished for a break from the clan not long ago? Mahariel bent down and retrieved the book from the floor. It had landed open, which bent the paper’s upper right corner. Mahariel flattened the page and was confronted by sharp-eyed Alacen Mahariel.

                By the Creators.

                “How long?”

                “Until I am satisfied with your performance.”

                Mahariel closed the book, hefted it on the Keeper’s desk, all the while keeping her eyes down.

                “You’ve made a decision?”

                Mahariel looked up at Namassa. “I have, hahren.”

 

By the time the sun hid behind the trees and warmed the sky with pinks and oranges, tables and benches ringed the central bonfire and the raised temporary platform. People had stopped by to congratulate Mahariel, grinning and patting her on the back or the head before they ran back to their preparations. Mahariel was busy with her own – washing up, braiding her hair in a swirl around her head, getting dressed. She was in the middle of rebinding her foot when a knock came at the door. Calling for the visitor to come in, Mahariel pulled her short black tunic over her undershirt.

                “Lethallan?” Variel poked her head past the door, a smile on her face. “I am not interrupting, am I?”

                Mahariel shook her head, indicated for her to take a seat. Variel flattened her skirt before she sat on the stool, dainty and charming. With her slender frame hidden under long-sleeved blouses and skirts, it was easy to think of her as fragile. Mahariel would pay a sovereign to see the faces of those who assume her docile when they witness Variel bend wood and steel to her will. The contrast made Mahariel’s lips smile and her stomach drop at the same time.  Mahariel pinned the bandage tight and turned to her visitor.

                “Thank you for the crutch. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one that retracts.”

                Variel beamed. “It was up to standard, I hope. It didn’t seem to affect your balance. Does it hurt your arm?”

                “Padding would be more comfortable,” Mahariel said, pointing at her underarm.

                “I'll note that.”

                “Is there something I can help with?”

                “Yes. About Tamlen, actually.”

                No surprise there. Mahariel buckled her belt to give her fingers something to do. Then she reached for her crutch and made her way in front of the small mirror hung next to the window. Her hair did not need fixing of course, but it was better than facing Variel directly. “Is he bothering you?” she asked when her throat was smooth enough.

                “No, not in the way you think.” She brushed her fringe off her forehead. “You are his closest friend, Mahariel; you must know what he likes.”

                Of course she did. She had seen the assortment of stones lined on the shelf above his cot; she had given him three of the clear ones. She had ran her fingers up the shorter hair at the back of his head, heard him giggle as the gesture tickled him. She gave him her share of red peppers and he gave her the skin of his chicken. “Are you planning to court him?” Mahariel asked with a teasing smirk.

                Variel went red. “I would not use ‘courting’. But I’d like to gauge his interest.”

                Mahariel paused at fussing with the bone buttons of her tunic. Bubbles sparkled up her stomach but she burst them one by one. “Weren’t you two already intimate?”

                She giggled. “Well, that’s only physical, yes? I want to know if there could be more.”

                Chairs and trunks spun around and Mahariel had to close her eyes. When the spinning stopped she turned to Variel. She looked up at her expectantly; a shy smile tugged her lips. Mahariel doubted that her clansman even noticed the nervous tension in her own shoulders, or the excited curl of her toes. What would it matter, anyway? She walked over to Variel, turned her around in her stool. Mahariel grazed her fingers up her nape and into her fair hair. “He likes it if you do this,” she said. “He’d try to pull away, but keep going. It relaxes him.”

                Variel gasped. “What about rocks? What kinds does he like?”

                She knew after all. Mahariel swallowed. “Whichever catches his fancy.”

                Variel hummed to herself. Mahariel moved back to the mirror, hung her weight on the wash stand, hands clasped in front of her.

                “That makes sense,” Variel said eventually. “I saw him wade into the river and pick a black lumpy rock I have never seen before. I thought he only liked that kind.” She jumped off the stool and Mahariel straightened her spine. Variel took both her hands and squeezed them. “Thank you, lethallan. I’ll come to you if I run into problems.”

                She really should not. Mahariel sighed, sinking on her cot as the door closed. She shook her head; there was no point in worrying about it now. Out her window, the sky turned darker; Mahariel waited for the sky to sink to its darkest blue – just before it changed to black – only then did she don her light armour and stepped out.  Azure lanterns dotted the path from the aravel to the platform. Warm faces bobbed along with the whipping fire. From the crowd, Keeper Marethari spotted her and raised her hand. The sudden hush froze Mahariel’s hands. It was an awkward promenade due to her limp, but, thankfully, she made it on the platform without issues.

                She tried not to glance at the faces turned to her, focusing instead on Namassa. The latter bowed and Mahariel mirrored her. “I will do my utmost to uphold your teachings, hahren.”

                “And I will help you to be the best you could so that you may protect our People, da’len.”

                Varanar came forward and handed Namassa twin ironbark Dar'misaan. The blades were at least two feet long, slightly curved, glowing with an amber sheen. Namassa handed the weapons to her, and Mahariel sheathed them at her waist. Next came master Ilen with a bow and a quiver full of arrows. He handed them to Namassa, and she in turn offered them to Mahariel. Mahariel slung the second weapon over her shoulder. It came a surprise that her arms did not creak as she moved; she might as well have been made of wood considering the rigidity that settled on her bones.

                “Breathe, da’len.” Namassa guided her by the elbow to the chairs below the dias.

                “Is it over?”

                “The formalities, yes.”

                Mahariel blew air out of her mouth as she sank on her seat. To her right, Keeper Marethari congratulated her, squeezing her hand - which has yet to return to its senses. Eyes on the table in front of her, Mahariel ran all possible ways to tell her friends what was to come after this ceremony. Tamlen would go into hysterics, most likely; half due to incredulity that Mahariel would agree to venturing into the Wilds, half due to jealousy that Mahariel would venture into the Wilds while he remained in camp. Fenarel would disapprove, of course, but he would only wish her good luck. Merrill would marvel at it, perhaps; she had a different view of the world, and she would have enjoyed whatever the Wilds had to offer.

                A plate thunk on the table. Mahariel blinked at the roasted meat brushed with thick red sauce and sided with peppers and roasted potatoes. She detected lemon and honey, and a number of spices she could no longer tell separately. What was missing, however, was her appetite. Licking her lips, she cast her eyes over her clan who laughed and sang and dined. Fenarel caught her eyes, and he stood up among the table of hunters and raised his mug with a cheer for her. Despite her growing unease, Mahariel smiled, raised her own mug to Fenarel. She brought her eyes back to her food and ate. The bear was tender, Namassa commented from her left. Well marinated and fatty. Mahariel agreed, though she tasted nothing. There was only the rush of blood in her veins and the pulse beating on her ears. They were fading. Or rather, Mahariel drifted away from them, like a boat whose line was cut. She finished little more than half of her meal before she excused herself from the table, muttering that she needed air.

 

The night air dabbed the beads of sweat from Mahariel’s forehead as clouds gauzed over the half-moon. A stone bit onto Mahariel’s ribs but her arms were too shaky from manoeuvring her crutch that she did not bother to pluck it out. Below her feet, the stream trickled down a miniature waterfall that led to the feast downhill. At least the bear brought enjoyment to the clan. Far to her right a blue light illuminated an outstretched arm and a serious familiar face. Mahariel chuckled, breathe puffing out. It had not yet been ten minutes since she left the celebration, and here he was.

                “Are you alright, lethallan?” Tamlen asked, jogging to her now.

                “I’m fine, Tamlen. Just resting.”

                The lantern hovered above Mahariel, moths swirling around the petal-shaped glass. “Out here?” When Mahariel did not move, Tamlen sighed and sat cross-legged on the grass beside her. “Is something wrong?”

                Where to begin? “I’m overwhelmed, is all.”

                Tamlen watched her, silent and unmoving, as if judging if that was all there was. Finally, he scooted closer and said, “You looked scared, back there.”

                “I probably was.”

                “Why?”

                “Wouldn’t you be?”

                He grinned. “I’d be jumping for the next three days.”

                If circumstances were different, Mahariel would be whooping too. Instead she watched Tamlen draw one of her new swords from its sheath, twirling them in his hands. The glowlamp bounced its radiance off the blade, slashed dazzling light into the creek. When will she get another moment like this with him? Will she ever?

                “It’s a fine weapon,” Tamlen said, and Mahariel almost groaned. “You’ll make good use of it.” He put the weapon away only to rummage the pouch at his belt.

                Mahariel waited for whatever it was that he was looking for, but his hands came back to the light empty.

                “I need to tell you something,” Mahariel eventually said. “It’s important.”

                Tamlen scanned her face for a sign of a prank. When he found none he nodded. “What it is?”

                Mahariel sat up. Her face came unexpectedly close to Tamlen’s. She blinked, backed away. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

                Tamlen shook his head. “Why not now?”

                “I want all three of you to be there; I only want to say it once.”

                “Oh.”

                Mahariel cupped his disappointed face, gave his cheeks a squeeze. “It’s only a few hours away, Tamlen. You can wait.”

                He grunted. “I’m not sure I can anymore.”

                “You and your drama. Now help me up before I freeze.”

                Tamlen snatched up her discarded belt, buckled it around her waist, and hauled her to her feet by the arms. Instead of handing her the crutch, however, he dropped to his knee and offered his back. “This will get us back faster,” he said.

                “Or it could send us tumbling into a dark hole.”

                He waved his hands. “Just get on, lethallan.”

                Mahariel could not say being carried by Tamlen was unpleasant; but she could not say it was pleasurable either. Perhaps she was overly concerned with avoiding touching Tamlen’s back with her chest that her awkwardness overshadowed everything else. She knew what it felt like to carry someone with breasts on her back, after all. When they traversed the heavily canopied areas, Tamlen asked her to hold the lantern farther out. That involved pressing closer to him. To refuse, however, would be odd. So she did as he asked. Heat exploded on her face. Tamlen wore a simple tunic, but her leather armour would be enough to dampen the contact, yes? Mahariel buried her face on his shoulder. His arms shook. It could be the strain of her weight, or he could be laughing. Mahariel didn’t ask.

               “I can feel your heartbeat,” Tamlen said softly. Mahariel began to withdraw but Tamlen’s grip on her legs tightened.

                Mahariel slid her hand lower on his chest. “Now I can feel yours. We’re even.” It was steady and strong, and noticeably slower than her own. Mahariel kept her hand over his heart until he lowered her at the threshold of her aravel. Even as Tamlen said goodnight and his blond head disappeared among the others, fair and dark alike, she could feel his pulse in her hands. Would she feel it when the time came for her to leave? Or will it fade as months passed? Years. Mahariel pressed her fist to her lips then opened them in the air.

                Better to let the shadow of his heartbeat fade now; it would not be fair otherwise.


	6. Breaking The Cocoon

Fenarel’s fingers freed lullabies from his flute, soft and carefree and irresistible. Warm diamonds of sunlight waltzed on Mahariel’s face as the wind ruffled the leaves shading them. Behind the tree they lazed under, far within the wagon rings of the camp, clangs of pots and hammered wood drifted to them in spurts, though the frying peppers wafted in their direction in a constant stream. Fenarel’s stomach rumbled against Mahariel’s ear and she laughed. The music stopped.

                “Wait. What are you doing?” Mahariel asked. “I’m sorry I laughed, please don’t stop.”

                “You are joking, right? My lips are about to fall off and my insides are digesting itself.”

                Mahariel cracked an eye open in time to see him stretch and yawn. There was a welt under his chin that curved to the side of his neck. “Either your shoulders are too strong, or you used the wrong bow.”

                “What?” Fenarel glanced down at her, then, realising what she meant, rubbed the red line on his skin. “No, it was my bow. Perhaps I should switch to a sword. It feels more comfortable in my hand, anyway.”

                Mahariel rolled her head on his lap so that her chin tilted up. “You _are_ better with a blade.”

                They let the grass mutter at the wind for a while, basking in the rare moment that they were free of duties. Mahariel closed her eyes again, willing the thoughts of her future lessons to scatter like dandelions in the spring breeze. It helped that Fenarel didn’t ask; he had merely offered his arm for her to hold when Mahariel invited him to walk with her, the very picture of a gentleman. A younger Fenarel wouldn’t recognise the man he had become.

                “Lethallin, remember that time you chased me with a caterpillar?” Mahariel said.

                A lengthy pause. Then, “You broke my little finger.”

                “I’m sorry I whacked you with a stick.”

                Fenarel laughed, jangling Mahariel’s head in the process. “A decade-late apology is better than nothing, I suppose. I accept. That was a good hit though.”

                Moments later Merrill popped her head from behind the tree with a chirpy, “There you are.” She leaned her staff next to the crutch, walked around Mahariel’s outstretched legs, settled on the grass, and laid her head on Mahariel’s stomach. “Master Hershel asked me to tell you that your hide will be ready to be shaved four days from today. What are you making with it?”

                “A coat, maybe,” she said with a chuckle at Merrill's choice of words. Mahariel had planned to use the pelt as a bed cover, head and all; but there were plenty of changes in plans these days. 

                Merrill spotted Fenarel’s lute and requested for a song. Fenarel grumbled that he should get paid for it before lifting the instrument to his lips. He played _The Piper_ , which sang about two elvhen fledglings rounding the halla herd as one of them played a pipe while the other counted the animals. Mahariel hated the lullaby; a number would be intentionally skipped over by the singer and at the end, they would ask which halla was missing. More often than not, the children who listened to the song would be too drowsy to bother giving an answer. When Ashalle had sung the lullaby for her, she had stared at the flickering lamplight, going over all seventy-eight hallas in her memory in search for the missing one. After three minutes of unblinking mumbling, Ashalle had told her it was fifty-seven. For whatever reason, Mahariel had not believed her and continued scouring her mind for the answer. Ashalle had found her red-eyed in the morning. It _was_ fifty-seven, Mahariel had whispered. Ashalle never sang it to her again. Ever since, Mahariel had learned to tune the song out.

                “Halla fourteen, halla fifteen, and another one. Halla one…” Merrill was humming when a new voice joined them.

                “Am I the only one not invited?” Tamlen asked, eyebrows rose in mock offence. He was in his leather armour, and his shield was still strapped to his back. A sweet flowery scent stuck to his skin.

                “You can sit with us if you stop talking,” Fenarel said.

                “How cruel the wolfling is.” He tossed his weapons onto the grass and leaned his back next to Fenarel against the tree. “I didn’t think you’d be out, Mahariel.”

                “I’m no longer in confinement; you’d know if you were here. Where have you been?”

                Merrill’s hair scratched at the white beads embroidered on Mahariel’s blue robe as the former tilted her head up to better look at Tamlen.

                He shrugged. “Gathering materials for Variel.”

                “Materials for what?” Merrill asked.

                “She didn’t say.”

                Oh, but she did. Tamlen’s face was too smooth, too casual. Mahariel squinted at him but he would not meet her eyes. She ground her teeth, killing the urge to question him further. Fair enough. It was no business of Mahariel’s anymore.

                Fenarel sighed. “Is this the part where I can finally ask what it is on your mind, Mahariel?”

                “So you _were_ curious.” Mahariel turned to Fenarel. “And here I thought you simply wanted quality time with me.”

                “That too, sister,” Fenarel said with a laugh.

                “Is this a secret meeting? Are we about to do something we shouldn’t even be thinking about?” Merrill said. “This should be exciting.”

                As Mahariel lay among her closest friends, the conversation back in the Keeper’s aravel soiled her thoughts. Would it be worse if she postponed telling them? She had asked Namassa and the Keeper to keep her departure quiet for now, but the elders already knew and they no doubt talked among themselves about it.  It was only a matter of time before other ears twitched.

                “There is something I need to tell you,” Mahariel said. Her skin crawled as three pairs of eyes landed on her. She licked her lips and swallowed. She patted Merrill’s head in permission to move. She rose, twisting to face her friends, and settled on a hip, right hand digging into the dirt for balance. Mahariel must have been a miserable sight; for someone who had always complained about Mahariel’s dead face, Fenarel was quick to clue in on her mood. He was frowning, and she had not even opened her mouth yet. Likewise, Merrill’s eyes darted back-and-forth to the male hunters, as if confirming that she was not the only one who felt the air grow static. And oh, Tamlen. Tamlen, buoyant and loud, locked his arms agaisnt his chest, sealed his lips. It was easier, in a way, for them to instinctively know Mahariel was about to say something…disagreeable.

                Mahariel looked at them each in the eye. “I’m leaving the camp-” Tamlen’s nose scrunched in confusion. “-with Namassa...” Fenarel caught his forehead on a hand, eyes closed. “...for my training.”

                “And where are you going, exactly?" Merrill asked, head cocked to the side, a frown on her sweet face.

                Mahariel braced her spine. “In the Korcari Wilds.”

                Her temple pulsed. One. Two. Three-

                Tamlen was on his feet, hands up, head shaking. “Wait, wait. What? Did you just say Korcari Wilds? Surely this is one of your pranks, lethallan.”

                “It's not,” Mahariel said, looking directly at Tamlen. “I am serious about this.”

                With a groan, he scratched at his head with his nails, feet stamped circles on the already dying grass. He continued like that for almost a minute while Fenarel and Merrill kept their thoughts to themselves; although it was clear from their sudden interest in the ground or their nails that they felt the same as Tamlen. Only they were not aggressive about it.

                Tamlen snapped back on her, arms spread. “What happened to ‘We shouldn’t, Tamlen, it’s too slippery.’? Or, ‘No, Tamlen, no one knows we’re here. The clan can’t help us if we get lost down there.’ Now you’re suddenly fine with going into the bleeding Wilds? Did I miss something here?”

                Mahariel lifted her chin. “Let me remind you that we still went wherever in the Void you wanted to go even when I said we should not. Let me also remind you that that waterfall cavern _was_ slippery, and that we _did_ get lost in that ancient garden. Remember it was I who got us out of trouble?” Mahariel gulped air, matching Tamlen’s glare with a cold facade. “Namassa will be with me. That does not guarantee our safety but the odds are better with a warrior like her.”

                “You’re still leaving the clan for the Wilds! We all hear the sounds the forest makes at night.”

                Mahariel shivered at the thought of being engulfed in that thick fog that rose from the ground each night, of being blinded by the haze with other creatures lurking in the wilds. Then she thought of Namassa’s private words. The Dalish travelled far and wide, and so they saw many places forgotten by others. They travelled on the outskirts of human civilization, and so they observed a larger picture of the shemlens. But the Dalish always travelled with the same people, rarely meeting other clans and never accepting a shem, and so they were unable to perceive themselves from the outside.

                “You’ve been staring at the ground for so long that all you can see is a blade of grass,” Namassa had told her with a knowing glance. “You forget the weeds and flowers around it. You forget to look up.”

                Mahariel sighed, shaking her head. “Tamlen, I need this. Namassa can teach me something that would change everything I see.”

                Tamlen’s eyes hardened. The veins in his forearm writhed as he clenched and unclenched his fists. “Lethallan…”

                “I’m not going away forever. I will come back, Tamlen.”

                “You had better.”

                He stormed back into camp, not even bothering to gather his shield and sword. Mahariel’s arm lost strength, buckled, and she fell to her side in the grass. Small hands came to cradle her head, and Mahariel pressed her cheek against them.

                “I need to do this,” Mahariel said again.

                Merrill ran her hand down her braid and up her back, where it stayed, warm and firm.

                “I will never get used to seeing you two fight; worse than facing a trio of wolves,” Fenarel sighed as he got to his feet and scooped up Tamlen’s possessions. “I can’t change your mind, Mahariel, but I do worry for your safety. As does Tamlen.” He crouched next to her, pinched her cheek playfully. “There is only one thing I ask: be cautious so that you may return to us healthy and strong.”

                “That’s the idea.”

                Chuckling, Fenarel stood and headed back to camp. He said over his shoulder, “I will talk to Tamlen.”

                Grey clouds thickened as the day aged, enough to block the sun without bearing the threat of rain. Mahariel had enough will to sit against the tree, left side pressed into the bark as Merrill hummed behind her as she weaved flowers into her braid.

                “When are you leaving?” Merrill whispered.

                “As soon as my foot is in top condition.”

                “Oh. It won’t be long, then. Unlike your hair.”

                Mahariel glanced over her shoulder at Merrill’s mellow smile. Merrill’s large eyes followed the flick and flutter of her fingers as she worked down Mahariel’s back. A fringe of hair hung over her forehead, a thin braid at the side of her head swayed over her ears.

                “May I ask a favour, lethallan?”

                Merrill looked up. In the glade, her eyes glowed a deeper green. “Of course, lethallan. Always.”

  

                “Are you sure about this, Mahariel? Is it necessary?” Merrill asked for the sixth time.

                Mahariel snapped the window of the aravel open, shoved the curtains aside, angled the mirror just slightly toward the light so it bounced it off the room. On the cot, Merrill held out a scissor and a comb, nose crunched.

                “I’m sure, Merrill. Now get that sheet.”

                She pulled the drape with her as Mahariel sat on the stool. “It seems a waste.”

                It was. Still, Mahariel pulled the leather strap and eased her braid lose. She would miss combing it over her shoulder, fanning it out on her pillow, draping it next to Merrill’s head so she could see what she looked like if she had long hair, slapping Junar with her braid when his teasing went too far. She would miss the way Tamlen had ran his fingers through it that evening he had washed her hair.

                “It will get in the way of moving.”

                “But you are already moving around with it. It doesn’t bother you from what I could see.”

                Mahariel shook the tresses over her back. “I get away with tucking it into my armour when I patrol, but I doubt it would be that easy in the Wilds.”

                Merrill sighed. “I wish I could attach it to mine so it won’t go all to waste.”

                Chuckling, Mahariel said, “It will grow back.”

                “Oh, but you have to wait years for that.” She snipped the scissors. “Are you unwaveringly certain?”

                “Do it. At the shoulder.”

                The brush glided down her head, and Mahariel closed her eyes. The scissors was cold on her back, even if was only through the flannel robe. Merrill brought the blades together, smoothly and quickly, their shearing metal vibrated along Mahariel’s shoulder blades, up her neck, to her skull. _Shhik. Shhik. Shhik._ Brush. _Shhik. Shhik. Shhik._ Each snip untied a weight from her head, and they were endless. Snip, snip, snip. A brief image flashed behind Mahariel’s eyelids, image of her head emptied inside out until it was light enough to float up into the sky.

                And then Merrill tapped her shoulder and brought her back to the ground. “All done,” she said.

                Mahariel turned her head, faster than she expected to move. “Thank you, Merrill.”

                She wrapped the shorn hair with the drape on her lap, tying it tight. “You like it? I went as straight as I could.”

                Holding a mirror to her now visible shoulders, Mahariel nodded with a small smile. “Yes, I feel lighter.”

                “You’ll make up soon, lethallan,” Merrill said, hugging her from behind. “Neither of you wants to part with sore feelings.”

                Neither wanted to part. But Mahariel knew now that she needed to distance herself from Tamlen. Namassa was right; she had to stop staring at the blade of grass if she wanted to know the world. Most of all, she needed to free herself from her childhood cocoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear readers. I went back to read the previous chapters, and, as expected, I found missing letters, misspellings, and awkward sentences. If you happen to notice them as you read the following chapters, please don't hesitate to point them out. You can either put it on the comments, or send an ask on my DA fic blog: maharieltheirinwrites@tumblr.com. You can also ask questions about writing, DA, or my fics.
> 
> Also, thank you for the kudos and the comments! It makes me want to write more.


	7. A Trio Down To Two

A game of hide-and-avoid was poorly played in a camp with a population of eighty-nine. Especially if thirty of those people spent their time outside camp, patrolling or hunting or scouting; and sixteen were children who were no use for cover. As it were, the week marinated in awkward turn-abouts and conspicuous side-eyeing.

                “It’s rather silent here in camp these three days,” Keeper Marethari had commented when she removed Mahariel’s stiches two days ago.

                Mahariel had not looked up from the book she had been reading, and so the Keeper just sighed and advised her to approach Tamlen before she left. Fenarel told her the exact opposite on the morning after the fight. Tamlen was still simmering, he had said. “He will come to his senses when he finally sees you all packed for the Wilds.”

                And so Mahariel focused on getting strength back on her legs; she devoted her time on stretches and lunges, and light jogging on even ground. Whenever Merrill was not with the Keeper, Mahariel sat with her and copied the elvish runes on her notes. They talked of healing magic, of how with the right spells the scars on Mahariel’s foot would disappear.

                “I like it,” Mahariel said, stretching her legs on the bench and flexing her toes. The new skin was pale and shiny, and rather sensitive still, tingling each time Mahariel pulled them too much as she moved.

                “Bear mauling is the kind of story that begs proof, I suppose; you’ll need that scar.”

                “I have a scar from falling off a halla.”

                Merrill’s eyes beamed. “You rode a halla? Everyone in Alerion wanted to try but they never quite got them settled.”

                Smiling, Mahariel pulled the wide collar of her blouse down her right shoulder, where raised scars curled across her upper arm. “The halla took a fast turn and I was dragged for a ways before thrown down a ravine. The halla realized I wasn’t with him eventually, tracked me down, disappeared again, then came back –” The smile died on Mahariel’s lips as she spotted Tamlen and Fenarel over Merrill’s shoulder delivering ironbark for master Ilen. As if sensing her gaze, Tamlen looked up.  Mahariel swivelled sideways on the bench, letting her hair curtain her face from Tamlen’s view. She resumed her writing until Merrill whispered that he already left.

                “Did he look angry?”

                “He was frowning and pouting. Actually, I think he might have snarled a bit.” Merrill curled her upper-lip, bearing her teeth in demonstration. Her nose scrunched in the process, looking like an offended squirrel.

                Mahariel laughed, rubbed a finger over her temple. “Thank you, Merrill.”

                When Mahariel caught Fenarel swinging his sword on the way to the training grounds later, she packed her journal and inkwell. Across her, Merrill raised her eyebrows. “Tamlen will be training all afternoon,” Mahariel said. “I’m going to the tower. Want to come with me?”

                Merrill rested her chin on her palm. “I’d love to go there again lethallan, but with Ylenna so close to birthing I mustn’t leave for long.”

                “Of course, lathallan. In any case, you’ll know where I’ll be.”

            

 Mahariel spent the first few minutes in her alcove high in the air sketching the unchanging spires of the fortress in Ostagar. In the distance, they were barely longer than her thumb, yet its weight could be felt somehow. It must crush a person’s lungs to stand in its shade. Mahariel pursed her lips. This would have been the thirteenth drawing of the same scene within two days. Or was it the fourteenth? With a groan, Mahariel threw her journal on the rug, favoured to hang her arm over the sill instead, head heavy on her shoulder. She would have to clear the tower of the stool and blankets she stored there. Then she would have to sort her belongings in the aravel, separate which items to leave, which items she would need. The late spring wind lapped at Mahariel’s hands, eager to pull her into autumn’s arms.

                It wasn’t until the fortress glowed red that Mahariel folded the blankets into her pack. She tied a rope around the collapsible stool and strapped that on the pack’s side. Echoes of her breath bounced on the stone walls as she straddled the sill, looked into her secret room for something she missed. Then her foot left the floor and she descended.

                She met Junar, Sareen, and Radhan halfway to camp. She trailed behind them, listening to their banter on which weapons were best used in which situations. At some point, the topic shifted to what game they would hunt for their rites of passage. Radhan slowed down then, sidling next to Mahariel.

                “Any tips for taking down a bear?”

                That again? ”Shoot it right in the mouth.”

                “Come now, Mahariel. Be serious.”

                “I am. If you can’t take it down with one shot, or at least maim it, don’t engage it.” She pointed at her foot. She felt Radhan readying himself to argue that _she_ engaged a bear, so Mahariel added, “I did not go looking for that bear. And if you have more sense than I do, you would not search for one either.”

                The words did not kill the determination in his eyes, but he consented with a sigh to drop the subject. Ahead of them Junar said over his shoulder, “Mahariel is one of a kind, Radhan. You’d never be beat her. Trust me.”

                Mahariel plucked an acorn from the ground just as Radhan snapped a low-hanging twig. In complete tandem, they threw their arms back and chucked their selected items at Junar. The latter yelped at the onslaught, complained that Radhan had put a little too much force into his throw. Sareen shook her head, though she had a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. The two boys began to push at each other, taunting the other with names. Sareen pulled Mahariel’s arm.

                “Foot’s all healed. Leaving soon?”

                Mahariel rubbed her eyes. “Everyone has heard then?”

                “Hard not to.” She gave an apologetic smile. “We will miss you, sister. And we wish you luck and a safe return.”

               

The afternoon of the next day, Ashalle hovered behind Mahariel like a full bladder waiting its turn in the toilet. For the most part, Mahariel danced her way around her guardian as she grabbed ironbark-reinforced leggings and long-sleeved tunics from her travel chest, saying nothing and letting Ashalle ready herself for whatever she was about to say. Encouragements, perhaps, or cautious reminders. Stay close to Namassa, don’t walk off on your own, keep your bow near you. It sowed nerves more than reassurances.

                Mahariel dropped to her knees, hand searched for the bedroll stored under her cot, and when she clambered back to her feet found Ashalle fidgeting with a small frame in her hands. It was made of simple polished wood, only as big as Ashalle’s spread palms. Wordlessly, she pressed the frame face down onto Mahariel’s hand. Either the wood was warm, or her hands had frozen. Heart thudding, Mahariel flipped the frame and was welcomed by the smiling faces of two young couple. She dug her nails into the portrait lest the shaking tumbled the memento from her grasp.

                “I’m like his reflection,” Mahariel half-sighed-half-laughed. “But in her size.”

                She didn’t dare to touch the velvety ash staff of Theleon nor did she trace the deep scar on Dihari’s right temple in fear of flaking the blues and browns of the painting. Dihari’s auburn hair, up in a complicated weave on her head, gleamed under the sun. Her blue-green eyes sparkled with a smirk reserved from her lips. There was a gold-rose glow to her skin completely lacking in Mahariel’s. A bone earring carved into a strung bow dangled from her left ear, and Andruil’s vallaslin stood proud on her face. Theleon’s smile for Dihari was even prouder. Leaning on his staff, head tilted to the side and one hand on his hips, he was the definition of casual. But the contrast between his black hair and dark eyes with his pale skin lent him an aura of danger. Adding to that was the red sharp vallaslin of Dirthamen. Actually dangerous or not, Mahariel will never know.

                She cleared her throat. “This was just lying about here?”

                Regret and hesitance strained the small smile on Ashalle’s lips as she said, “I had it locked in my chest.”

                “Why are you showing me now?”

                “Because,” Ashalle took Mahariel’s elbows and pulled her down on the cot. “I want you to know that your parents would be proud of you. Dihari would rail at sending you to the Wilds and would insist on going with you, but she would be thrilled to see you going after what you want. There could have been plenty of adventures between you and her. And your father would have named you his successor if he’d seen the way you handled the humans, even if you weren’t a mage.”

                Mahariel chuckled. “That makes sense, in a way. The former Keeper, a rule-breaker. What a scandal.”

                Ashalle laughed as well, though hers was jumpy. Mahariel raised an eyebrow, and her guardian dropped her eyes to the portrait.

                “What happened to them, Ashalle?”

                She shook her head. “I wish I can tell you, da’len. But I gave my word to the Keeper.” Ashalle looked back up, cupped Mahariel’s face. “When you are older, I promise to answer all your questions.”

                “Older, you mean eighteen? Or fifty-five?”

                With a sigh, Ashalle took the frame, wrapped it in a cloth, and placed in inside Mahariel’s trunk. Ashalle knelt in front of her, taking her hands. “Eighteen. You’ll be back by then, won’t you da’mis?”

                Little blade. Mahariel smiled at her childhood nickname, hoping her guardian was referencing her resolve in taking action instead of her stubbornness, and nodded. “I’ll be back, Ashalle.” She kept saying those words that she was becoming certain she would.

 

Early next morning, Mahariel brained the bear hide according to master Hershel’s patient instructions over her shoulder. Six of the younglings squatted by her feet, peering into the boiling pot to sniff and giggle at the softening brain. Larea pushed and pulled at Mahariel’s knee, whining to have a try with the stirring. With a shake of her head, Mahariel pulled the girl between her legs and guided her hand. A mistake, of course. Soon, the others were clamouring for the wooden rod, eager to poke at the organ. It was only when the pot liquefied that they lost interest and ran back out into the sun.

                “We won’t make the coat in time,” master Hershel said as he plucked a stray hair from the still-damp hide.

                Mahariel mushed the lumps into the side of the pot, stirred, and mushed again. “I know. Can it be sewn when I get back?”

                “And when would that be?” He wrung the hide of excess water, then dabbed it with towels. “’Suppose I can store the leather…hm…Yes. I can do that. Better wait ‘till you come back rather than measure it now and end up having the coat three sizes too small.”

                Mahariel smirked. “You think I’m going to triple my size?”

                Master Hershel shrugged. “Anything could happen; just look at Namassa. You don’t believe she was born grim and brooding, do you? She was much like your father before Jihaad took her under his wing.”

                Mahariel turned on her stool, the greasy mixture forgotten. Was there a loosened screw in the camp that made everyone suddenly decide to talk about her parents? “How do you mean, master Hershel?”

                “Always laughing, smiling. Speculating about magic and what it must have been in Arlathan.” He sighed, shoulders drooping.

                “But Jihaad died,” Mahariel guessed, “during Namassa’s training?”

                Master Hershel nodded, lips pursed, and went back to silently drying the hide. Mahariel stirred the mixture again, hand moving on its own, eyes unseeing as her mind wandered to the past, then to the future. That information would make her next meeting with her hahren awkward. Awkward for her mentor, more restless for Mahariel. Already, she expected long stares at Namassa’s back as she wondered if she should breach the subject.

                After rubbing the hide with the brain liquid and rolling it into the tub of ice, Mahariel bid her thanks and farewell to master Hershel, eager to breathe fresh air. He stopped her briefly by the flap of his workshop, a calloused hand on her shoulder.

                “Take caution in the Wilds, child,” he said. “Trust in your mentor; you are her priority and so she will see you safe.”

                His words trickled down her back like the first winter rain. Mahariel bowed, then ducked into afternoon light.

                Larea spotted her right away, came at a run and launched herself at Mahariel, who had no choice but to spin the child around lest they toppled. Her twin, Renae, trailed behind, hands clasped in front of her, a shy smile in her yellow eyes.

                “You are getting heavy,” Mahariel said, laughing as she settled Larea on the ground.

                “We need you, Mahariel.”

                She let herself be pulled in the direction of the cooking pit, where the other children chased each other. “I’m not cutting your nails again. Not with those filthy feet. Urgh.” She scrunched her nose for effect.

                Renae giggled. “She means skip rope.”

                True enough, coiled on a bench that barred the rim of the cooking pit was a length of rope. And next to it, Tamlen. He watched their approach, hair pushed back from his forehead with a leather band; a slight frown on his brow wrinkled his vallaslin. Mahariel dug her heels.

                Larea tugged at Mahariel’s arm, and Renae looked up in confusion. “Hurry up, Maha,” the former said.

                Did they plan it? They were six year-olds, but they can be manipulative. Especially Larea. Or did Tamlen ask them to bring her? Mahariel swallowed. Unlikely. From his tense shoulders he was not ready for this meeting either. Yet he sat on the bench, waiting, as Mahariel’s feet responded to the twin’s coaxing. Then she was in front of him, accepted one end of the rope. She opened her mouth to greet him, but he stepped back until the bend of the rope hovered a mere inch from the ground. Mahariel gritted her teeth.

                The children screamed in delight, scrambling to leap over the steady rounds of the rope. Mahariel focused on their laughter, on their squeals of ‘faster’ and ‘higher’. She kept her eyes on their green-stained feet, wrist rolling in time with their jumps. She flicked her gaze up from time to time, whenever Tamlen reminded the children not to push and jostle. She should not have waited this long to talk to him. She should have gone the next morning of the fight. Now her tongue was stuck to roof her mouth and her stomach knotted as though she had drank tar. She swallowed back a sigh.

                The game continued for twenty minutes until Araya, the smallest one, tripped and crashed to the ground. She took the blow with bravery, eyes dry despite her lips trembling. Mahariel sent her to her parents, accompanied by all the other children. She turned to Tamlen, but without word, he followed the group, leaving Mahariel to coil the rope on her own. Her face burned so fiercely that she could not even yell at Tamlen that he was not being fair.

               

It was barely dawn when her stomach protested its hollowness, grumbling loud enough to jolt her from sleep. But that wasn’t all; something had jumped in the night that disturbed the silence. Mahariel pulled her curtain, saw that Ashalle’s cot was empty. She tilted her head to the door, where muffled conversations crept past the threshold. Not a second later Ashalle stormed in. She froze as she saw Mahariel awake. Behind her was the heavy-robed Keeper and Namassa - clad in full armour, a pack strapped to her back.

                Mahariel’s jaw hung. “Right now?”

                There were tears in Ashalle’s eyes as she nodded. She busied her trembling fingers by preparing Mahariel’s cloak and hunting gear. Mahariel herself blinked from her cot, breathing from her mouth.

                “What, are we to sneak away from camp like thieves?”

                “Are you not packed?” Namassa asked, chin jerking to the bag at Mahariel’s feet.

                Ashalle pushed the leggings and tunic to Mahariel's chest then loosened the ties on her vambrace and greaves.

                “Why the odd time?” Mahariel asked even as she pulled her night dress over her head.

                “The elders were beginning to doubt the wisdom of your departure,” Keeper Marethari said.

                “So we _are_ sneaking.” Unbelievable. Mahariel expected to wake up again, as this could only be a dream. But Ashalle’s tears glimmered under the lamp in a dozen colours too vivid to be anything else but reality; and so Mahariel donned her armor mechanically, turning this way and that to allow her guardian space to strap her boiled-leather bodice and her weapons belt. It was only when she hefted her pack that the realisation slapped her face: this was the last time she’d see the camp for who knows how long. A tickle ran up her nose and she blinked, turned to her guardian.

                “Safe journey, da’mis,” she said.

                Mahariel took her hand and kissed her knuckles. She followed her mentor into the misty woods. Tall oaks were nothing but black pillars reaching up into velvety sky sprinkled with stars, which were numerous enough to guide their path and form silhouettes of the hunters stationed by the outer rings of wagons. Mahariel squinted at the figures. Could Tamlen be one of them? Fenarel? One of the shadows broke from the line, jogged ahead to intercept Mahariel’s group. A longsword glinted at his back.

                “Mahariel!” It was Fenarel, wide-eyed and frowning. “What’s going on? You’re leaving?”

                Mahariel ran to him, arms wrapping around his waist. One of his hands cupped the back of her head, the other fisted on her back. It had always been three of them since Mahariel was born. If fruits went missing, Fenarel, Tamlen, and Mahariel ate them; if the halla got too excited, the hallakeeper would find Fenarel, Tamlen, and Mahariel; if the camp was kept up at night, the adults confiscated Fenarel’s  flute, Tamlen’s lute, Mahariel’s lyre. She had never lived without the two boys; they were there the moment she drank her first milk. Mahariel squeezed her eyes, bit her lip to control a sob.

                “Did you talk to him?” he whispered.

                She shook her head. “I didn’t think it would be this soon. And Merrill…Bleeding thorns, you’re here, at least.”

                Fenarel drew back, thumbs wiped the tears on Mahariel’s cheek. “I can go wake them. It won’t take long.”

                Before she could agree, Namassa shot the idea down with a curt, “Too risky.”

                That had Fenarel shaking his head in bewilderment. Mahariel grabbed his hands and pressed them to her lips. When she looked up, she said, “Tell them I said goodbye.” She licked her lips. New tears dripped off her chin. No matter what happened now, she and Tamlen would never be the same again. They were foolish in dragging their fight this long, and now they had no chance to fix it. She wanted to separate herself from him, yes. But not like this. Mahariel kissed Fenarel’s hands again. “Tell him that he’ll see me again.”

                Fenarel planted a kiss on her forehead as promise. His arms drew from her and Mahariel shivered against the morning dew.

                After Keeper Marethari gave her blessings, Mahariel pulled her hood as she and Namassa plunged into the woods. Neither turned back. They focused on the dark blues and blacks ahead of them, feet leapt over mud puddles and tangled roots, head ducked under low branches. Soon, the lanterns that fused the camp in a blue haze vanished behind them.

                A game of hide-and-avoid was poorly played in a camp with a population of eighty-nine; and Mahariel became glad for it. She smiled ruefully. It will be harder to play now that clan Sabrae had a population of eighty-seven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, dear readers. Like before, if you spot misspellings and the like please let me know so that I can fix it immediately. They are rather slippery.
> 
> And of course, thank you for reading!


	8. Into the Wilds

The Wilds allowed no sleep. If the howls startled Mahariel from dead sleep back in the Dalish camp and made her stare at the full moon until the wolves silenced, their calls jolted her into a frenzied search for her weapons now that she was much closer to the animals. The scuttling beyond the ring of firelight stimulated Mahariel’s nerves enough to stay alert until sunrise; and the snuffling made the night worse, for it shot adrenaline through her veins with each sound the unknown source made. Broad as her imagination was, even the tiniest shadowy movement sped Mahariel’s breath. From her behaviour during the first week deeper in the Korcari Wilds, it was as if Mahariel had not grown up in the forest, had not spent days tracking game for most of her adolescence, had not followed a wolf, had not killed a black bear. Her face stiffened when her Dar’Misaan reminded her that she was a hunter.

            Namassa had quickly picked up on her frustration, and she had decided not to move camp on their second night, when she found her scrutinising the trees. Instead, Mahariel was instructed to pull out her journal and sketch the plants her mentor showed, all the while listing their properties and uses. As the grit in Mahariel’s eyes became harder to ignore, Namassa ended the lesson with a reminder: The Korcari Wilds was no ordinary forest, and Mahariel was right to be guarded.  “You came to train here so that you can learn about whatever else are out there,” her mentor had said. “When you do, you won’t wake up drenched in sweat any longer.”

            Not waking up in cold sweat required Mahariel to, first and foremost, fall asleep. Then she must get used to sounds of the Wilds and respond to them as she wished. There was no getting used to the creepers, however, despite the insects and slugs being everywhere. Mahariel’s only consolation was that Namassa knew of a repellent for the pests, and she had taught the recipe for the cream. If only it worked for the larger predators as well. They had not encountered many of them, but giant sacs that hung from trees marked the presence of the giant spiders, runic gauges on trees hinted at Chasind territory. Then, of course, there was the howling of the wolves.

            Hahren Paivel said the Dalish could survive without water for at least four days; three weeks without food. And sleep? Mahariel decided that it would take three days of sleepless nights before her shifty vision would cause her to slip on a mossy root and hit her throbbing head on a humongous rock. Hand on a damp trunk, Mahariel shook her head to clear the fog, then took a gulp of water. Fighting off the urge to sleep exercised her endurance, as Namassa had encouraged her; but at the same time it scrambled her basic functions and strained her sanity. It also questioned her decision in going into the Korcari. With a sigh, Mahariel bounced her pack higher up her back and waddled after her mentor. It took no more than five minutes of stumbling through weeds and branches before she finally called for Namassa, who was a dozen feet ahead despite her slowed pace, to take a break. Her mentor scanned her head to toe then agreed with a nod. They dropped their packs against an elevated tree under which Mahariel took her nap as Namassa stood guard.

            A blink later and she was shaken by a waft of pungent sap.

            “Time to move, da’len,” Namassa said, chucked the broken sap-oozing stem onto the mud.

            Mahariel swiped a hand down her face. “I just got my sleep.”

            “You had your sleep an hour ago. Let us find a safe camp before the sun sets.”

            Groaning, Mahariel strapped her pack and followed. The grit in her eyes was gone, at least, and she was no longer in danger of seeing double. Hopefully their next camp didn’t hide blood plants under the squishy leaves; the prick that the vine’s thorns had bit into Mahariel’s shin had not yet dried of pus, and it inspired nightmares of Mahariel sawing off her own leg just to rid the itch. They needed to find more mint weed, lest the puncture swelled again.

 

The deeper into the Wilds, the wetter it got; the wetter it got, the thicker the fog formed. Neither Mahariel nor Namassa wanted to be caught in the haze as they slept. On the end of their second week, they nested on the branches of an elder tree. With their tents transformed into hammocks, Mahariel had hoped to get a better sleep while she was out of reach of the wild creatures. But as she swayed more than twenty feet above the swell of ground the tree crested, looking down to the swirling moisture that rose each night, her stomach rolled at the thought of flipping in her sleep and not waking up ever again.

            Fingers dug on the edges of her mid-air bed, Mahariel mentally swiped across the ingrained image of the Ferelden map as she memorised the different Teynirs and their respective current Teyrns. She was just recalling the siege on Gwaren during the Orlesian occupation when Namassa called her attention. Mahariel opened her eyes in time to see an apple sailing across the five-foot gap between her and her mentor.

            “Now that you are able to make potions with minimal mistakes,” Namassa said as she stretched the wool blanket over her legs, “we’ll start making poisons and antidotes tomorrow. Are you up for a quick review on the ingredients so far?”

            Mahariel peeled the skin off the fruit with the thickening nails of her thumb and first finger. “I’d rather we discuss the City Elves, hahren. Why not send word to them, or one of us? Invite them to join our clans? We can sneak a little bit of them at a time out of the shemlen cities.”

            Unlike numerous times before, Namassa did not bother with a sigh. “They live with the shemlen now, da’len; they are no longer like us.”

            Frowning, Mahariel flicked the peeled skin into the air. The elders said their distant cousins were to be pitied, for their prolonged contact with humans diluted their heritage. The Dalish were supposed to teach them when the time came. But when? “From what you have taught me about the Exalted March on the Dales, that is hardly the City Elves’ fault.”

            “They are _exactly_ to be blamed.”

            Mahariel’s eyes snapped up at the hardness of her mentor’s voice. She could not see the warrior’s face behind the foliage that partially separated them, but her form was still against the canvas bed. Shaking her head, Mahariel could only whisper “Why?”

            Chirps and croaks dotted the misty forest floor; high above their heads, the wind gained enough strength to rustle the highest leaves. A minute passed without much else to disturb the silence. Mahariel scoffed and rolled on her left side, her back to Namassa. It was only when the full consequence of hiking all day piled on top of sleep deprivation that Mahariel caught the wisp of her mentor’s words.

            “We refused to submit; they chose to stay.”

            Their ancestors did. City Elves today had no choice.

 

A whole week passed in which Mahariel was unable to look her mentor in the eye for longer than two sentences. It was worse than balancing on slimy branches, teetering between settling a truce on the subject of the City Elves or leaving it as is. Mahariel considered it both good luck and a punishment that Namassa decided to focus on polearms in their martial training during that week. Good luck because there were no need for words, especially on her end; a punishment because eye contact was needed for Mahariel to read Namassa’s next moves, otherwise her mentor could drive the sparring pole through her eyes. With her attention on blocking, thrusting, spinning, and the occasional leaping, the four-hour daily regimen culminated in what seemed to be one long deep breath. As Mahariel stretched her limbs to slowly bring her temperature back down, Namassa wrote on her journal. A record of Mahariel’s progress, no doubt. A positive one, hopefully.

            “Thoughts on this type of weapon, da’len?” Namassa asked without looking up, ink scratching on paper.

            Mahariel dabbed her lips with a honeyed cloth, then said, “More dynamic than dual blades, hahren. I tire faster, but they do have a longer range.”

            “And what do you think suits you best?”

            Blowing air through pursed lips, Mahariel twirled the six-foot pole over her head then stuck the butt into the ground. There was a draw in wielding a lance, certainly; the flow of each move was more connected, smoother. Like the salvaged remains of written elvhish. Whereas dual blades slashed and struck, from step one to step two. Similar to the movements in writing the Common Tongue.

            “Since my speed is greater than my endurance, daggers would work best for me, generally.”

            Namassa nodded. “Take your bow and shoot until the sun peaks.”

            Wordlessly, Mahariel strapped her gear and hiked east, back to where they had set up new block targets two days ago. It was in these solitary moments, in a sphere of rare sunlight, of automatic firing, that allowed Mahariel’s mind to wander. Mostly back to the Dalish camp two hours away. Did Ashalle churn in her bed as she did? Could Fenarel have heard Mahariel’s yelp along with the wolf howls as Namassa struck ribs, or kicked the back of her knees? Did Merrill bolt awake as she heard her scream when the blood plant’s poison scorched her veins? Was Tamlen thinking of her during the times she had murmured his name when she pocketed pebbles that he would like?  

            Mahariel rolled her shoulders, swished her bow to loosen the tension, then aimed again. Two dozen arrows pierced the target, were ripped from it, only to pincushion the painted plank again. Draw, nock, release. Draw, nock, release. Soon as the three-beat rhythm smoothed, Mahariel began to draw two arrows at once - both between her first two fingers – and hastened her pace. Nock, release, nock, release. Draw. Nock, release, nock, release. Draw. It was all too choppy. Her arm too shaky to unite the distance between quiver and target. Biting her inner cheeks, Mahariel felt for the last pair of arrows. As she stretched her right arm to draw, one of the arrowheads caught the rim of the quiver. Its fletching slashed against her wrist, burning a line with its initial speed and abrupt stop as it clattered back inside the quiver. Clucking her tongue, Mahariel loosed the arrow she managed to pull out. It veered left, lodging on the upper left corner of the block. How much longer would her training be extended if she told Namassa of this mishap?

            Hands on her hips, face lifted to the sun-gilded treetops, eyes blinking for moisture, Mahariel groaned. In the isolation cultured within the Wilds, time bent and stretched until she lost all feeling of days. The sun rose and sunk, yes. But the sleep she managed to grab in one month felt nothing but blinking of the eyes. Were it not for the delightful sores of stretched muscles and fuming skin, it would be easy to mistake the Wilds as a drunken dream. A dream that Mahariel cannot wake up from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers,
> 
> I apologize for the unexpected haitus. I underestimated the exhaustion that comes with sightseeing and overestimated the WiFi quality in the places I went to. As usual, if you guys spot misspellings and the like, please let me know.


	9. Perfect Timing and Odd Gifts

Mahariel glared down her nose at the boulder, fingering the hilt pressed to her waist. If she squinted, the gashes on the grey surface sharpened into runic figures. Much like the dozen they have seen in the last two days. No matter how much farther north they travelled, skirting each marking on stones and trees and mud like the Blight, they could not seem to leave Wilder territory. Or more likely, they were being hemmed in by the Chasind. Unclasping the last two bone buttons of her mantle, Mahariel backtracked north-east, to the murky pond she and Namassa had agreed to meet back.

                A bird cawed overhead. Messenger bird or just a regular raven? Mahariel willed herself to walk along the animal trail instead of running, but she allowed her hand to grip her sword tighter under the fur. The old woods, pasty under the smoky clouds that smothered the sun, creaked their complaints on the coming winter, as did Mahariel’s bones; yet all else remained silent, watching, waiting. Even with her ears strained Mahariel detected no sign of anyone. Still, she would not dismiss the knot in her stomach that kept her eyes jumping from one trunk to the other. She drew her hood down, braving the kiss of mist in favour of wider sight.

                The slope of the forest floor steeped closer to the pond, softer too, wetter. Clumps of cold soil squeezed between Mahariel’s toes, and it almost made her laugh how three months ago the squelchy dirt had raised goosebumps along her arms and nape. Soon the trail vanished, covered over by rotting leaves and dirt, and then crisscrossed with breaching roots half as thick as their trunks. Even those were eventually overrun by moss and fungus. Mahariel hopped across the knitted roots from one knob to the next, no more than a child playing on a giant’s slippery staircase. Had the sun been shining through a verdant forest, green and gold, the landscape would have been a sight right out of the stories about the ancient elven empire; maybe a street leading to a great market. Castles in the woods. Elven lords and ladies, rulers of the forest.

                Halfway through the natural staircase, mid-drop from the highest gap of root, a smudge moved behind a fallen pine to the right. With a huff, Mahariel rolled her head, popping the bones in her neck. The foliage was thicker lower ground, though not enough to hide archers perched on branches. Barren, most of them. But there, eight feet ahead, was a break in the weave of roots. At least four feet deep, if Mahariel judged the shadows accurately. She slipped a knife from her belt, hid it within her left palm, and jumped to the next root. Then the next. There could be at least two of them in the gap, then one behind the trees. Three she could handle. More…Had they found Namassa too?

                Mahariel fell softer now - balls of her feet first, then rolling to her heel, bending her knees last. Oh, how she regretted not taking her bow. With a breath, she pushed off the last root, aimed a little to the left where the root raised to meet trunk. Soon as her feet touched bark, arrows snapped up. Mahariel threw her knife. Before it even hit its mark, she leapt to the soil to avoid the arrow from the Chasind hunter ducked on the other end of the dip. The first hunter, closer to Mahariel, dropped to her knees, gripping her nocking arm to her chest. Mahariel hauled the hunter by the collar and swung behind her, wincing at the curse spat at her as she twisted the hunter’s good arm behind her back. To see his comrade presented as the target, the second hunter hesitated to fire. But only for a second. He drew back his arm. Mahariel kicked the injured hunter toward the other and drew her sword. Even as the second stumbled to catch his comrade, Mahariel lunged, arm cocked for the killing sweep.

                Her blade had a mere foot to bite into neck when it snapped out of her hand, twisting her wrist and pulling a curse from her throat.

                “Enough!”

                Three heads snapped up. Standing among the sentinel trees above them were five more Chasind warriors; all in full leather armour, all bows drawn. Two of those were trained on Namassa’s back. Her mentor shook her head. Mahariel straightened. Their leader - the one who shot the arrow that knocked her sword - barked an order in their foreign tongue; the two remaining warriors leaped into the dip at once. Mahariel clenched her teeth as the taller man swept a hand under her mantle and yanked her other sword from her belt. Whatever gentleness the wild folk could muster, they offered to their injured comrade, who glared and snarled at Mahariel despite her bloody swaying and stumbling between the senior warriors.

                Mahariel followed them up the root stairs before the tall man behind her could prod her into walking. He had both of her Dar’Missan hanging from his belt – along with what looked like a wolf’s tail - and a hilt that looked like Namassa’s jutted over his right shoulder. Leather straps hugged the bulge of his shoulders. Did they have her pack too? Their bows? Mahariel sighed as she found their weapons and packs on the backs of the warriors guarding her mentor. On the bright side, murder was not yet part of the wilders’ agenda.

 

Marching through the zigzags of huts and lines of pointing painted children, Mahariel felt the Wilds spin outward from her feet. For three months she and Namassa had explored pockets of the forests, crossing docile wildlife and toxic plants never seen anywhere else. They had actively avoided Chasind signs, of course, but how had they not noticed a village larger than their own Dalish camp until now? The cooking fires cut into the sky like finger trails on velvet. Yet there Mahariel was, weaponless and alone, herded by two warriors into the farthest reach of the settlement supposedly to be killed. Or imprisoned. Either way, the stale bog water and musty damp wood that wafted under Mahariel’s nose promised an unpleasant experience.

                It was difficult to tell whether the small village was built over the lake or a morass grew over the years and had encroached on the far edges of the huts, which forced them to be raised on stilts. A large bridge led out one-fourth through the water, where it branched into a number of smaller rail-less pathways to individual cabins; these ones nothing more than boxes. Thick, sturdy boxes. Mahariel slowed her pace as she stepped onto the plank bridge the tall warrior steered her to. The true depth of the lake was impossible to guess, murky and tendrilled with weeds as it was. Licking her lips, Mahariel put one foot in front of the other, eyes anchored to her soon-to-be prison cell.

                “Quick,” Tall-and-Impatient said, the Dar’Missan still swaying at his hip.

                Mahariel scowled over her shoulder. Now he was merely gloating; why drop the other weapons into the armoury and keep the ones that belonged to her? Not that having her swords close at hand was a bad thing. She increased her pace a fraction, enough to appease her captors without upsetting her balance. Were it not depthless water that was under her feet, she would not have to play safe. A low sweep of her leg and it would be a one-on-one fight. By the creators, if she aimed right she could dump both guards into the lake. No fight at all. All that would be left is the matter of locating Namassa in one of the dozens of huts behind her.

                Halfway on the planks, Mahariel spotted two guards by the cabin meters to the right of her own. They sat on their haunches, occasionally spat whatever they chewed into a bowl. Two red slashes were painted on the door they guarded.

                A hilt stabbed into her side. “Not your business, elf,” Grumpy said. Or at least that was what Mahariel thought he’d said; this Chasind’s tongue was rather clipped around the Common vowels.

                With all the fur Grumpy draped on his shoulders and wrapped around his torso, it would take little time for him to sink to the lake bed. Unless he could swim with full armour on. Mahariel sighed and brought her eyes back forward. The planks groaned under their feet as three of them marched to the very end of the bridge, and Mahariel almost groaned in sympathy at the thought of the bound wood falling apart while she was trapped in that cabin. Or even more alarming, while they were still on the bridge. A few paces from the cell, Grumpy pushed Mahariel to the side to unbolt the door. Her instinct urged her to push back but a shadow swooped overhead and grabbed her attention. Peering up without moving her head, Mahariel noted white underbelly and red-tipped wings which were more ruffled than usual. Miro flew over the lake, never slowed down nor circled, or even glanced below, and then vanished into the treetops as silent as he appeared. Mahariel lowered her eyes in time to see Grumpy turn and wave an arm for her to step inside, which she did so with a glare and a crinkle on her nose. The door slammed behind her and she was not even an inch past the threshold. Perfect timing for everyone.

                The cell was really just a windowless room with a chamber pot pushed to the corner - a clean one at that! Bless Mythal. A straw palette pressed itself into the opposite wall as though desperate to get as far away from the chamber pot as the little box cabin would allow. Depending on how much longer Mahariel’s imprisonment would be, she would be doing the same. Sighing, Mahariel dropped on the cot. There were three options, as far as she could see:  One, Namassa succeeds in persuading the tribe leader to brush off their clothes and let them be on their way; two, Keeper Marethari sends the hunters to retrieve them, most likely forcefully; three, Mahariel could attack the first person who would bring her food, fight off the guards, then possibly sneak back into the main settlement. None could be done immediately so all she could do at the moment was wait. If only she knew how much time she had, exactly.

`              Mahariel stared at the grumbles beyond the door. Should she or should she not hope for a red mark on her door. Inside the confining walls that pressed on her ears, she fancied the guards painting her door just to see what it meant.

 

All it took was one touch, and Mahariel’s hand lashed at the cold flesh that brushed her neck even before she had her eyes open. A gasp dispersed the foggy dreams in her mind. Crouching close to her cot was a girl, no older than ten, dressed in patches of colourful cloths brought starkly together by seamless threads. Like the rest of the children, her face was painted with waves of purple and yellow. Unlike the rest of the children, her eyes were pure white.

                “Didn’t want'a scare you,” the girl said.

                The door to the cabin was closed, and murmurs slipped in through the threshold. Mahariel raised an eyebrow at the child. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

                The girl smiled, steadily looking straight at Mahariel’s eyes. “I thought you were the one hurting.”

                Sitting up, Mahariel took the lantern from her hands and helped the girl onto the cot. She watched as the girl curled her legs under her to get comfortable. “What do you mean?”

                “You were burning, so I thought I should help.”

                Mahariel pressed a palm to her neck; her temperature did feel higher than usual, but it could be easily explained by the rush of blood at being woken up by a girl obviously touched by magic. “You saw me burning? On a pyre? Wildfire? You dreamt it?”

                The girl shook her head. “Not on a pyre. In blood. The blood was burning through you.”

                Mahariel’s skin prickled, and she swallowed. “Are you talking about something more than a fever?”

                “It is a fever. And more.” From the folds of her robe, she took out a white flower speckled with red at its core. Its petals soaked the lamplight, absorbing it all without giving anything back. “It will help.”

                “Help with what?”

                The door opened, and before the girl could answer Tall-and-impatient ducked through. He threw something in the air, and Mahariel caught them: her Dar’Missan. “Your companions wait for you,” he said with a jerk of his head. He bowed once to the girl, then left.

                Mahariel held the girl by the shoulders, saw her frown reflected in the girl's silky eyes. “What is the flower for? How will it help?”

                “I don’t know,” the girl shook her head. “Keep it safe; your shaman will know what to do when it comes.”

                “When what comes?”

                “I don’t know.”

                Mahariel wiped her hand down her face, and the girl’s lips drooped at the action. Mahariel strapped her weapons in silence, feeling the girl’s gaze on her every move. Eventually she knelt in front of the child and took her hands.

                “I’ll take care of the flower. Thank you.”

                The girl smiled, jumped out of the bed, and led Mahariel into the waking village.

                A ring of what Mahariel assumed were the elders of the tribe waited by the gates, and in their midst were Namassa, master Ada, and Keeper Marethari herself. Mahariel laughed. The Keeper’s shoulders relaxed at hearing the sound again, though a crease formed on her brow when she saw the girl. The latter let go of Mahariel’s fingers, squeezing once before she ran back to the huts.

                An elderly woman greeted Mahariel with a quick nod, and said, “The words she spoke to you, remember them, Sabrae-child.”

                As the huts sent new plumes of smoke into the blue sky, a chill swept under Mahariel’s skin. She felt the weight of that small flower on her back, guarded inside a glass jar, roots floating in the water, waiting for ground. Her elders didn’t ask, and Mahariel allowed herself to fade behind the group as they trekked back toward the camp where Keeper Marethari had left her small entourage.  Phantom fires crackled in her ears, and for a second it seared her mind. Shaking her head, Mahariel glared at the ground in front of her feet, nails digging into her weapons belt. She forced herself to concentrate on walking. Just walking. One step at a time; lest she trip and break her neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers,
> 
> Again I apologize for the late and infrequent update. Night shift is a black hole that sucks time and energy, but now that i got laid off, I hope to have more time writing. As usual, please feel free to point out typos and grammatical/spelling errors so i may correct them.
> 
> In other news, Mass Effect is a very bittersweet game.


	10. The Footsteps Seen Over the Shoulder

Time was a curious thing: in the darkness of Mahariel’s cell, a sigh swirled into laughter bubbling within moss-eaten ruins and echoed over a feasting camp; out under the sunlight, a gasp began in the arms of Fenarel and ended with his last backward glance as the Keeper led her company back home. The unfairness of that interrupted reunion with Fenarel bowed Mahariel’s back more than the sudden storm that whipped the Wilds two days after Namassa and Mahariel said their goodbyes once more.

                Curled into the bedroll under a turbulent tent, a bath in the muck churned by the rain appealed more than the thought of finishing the training. A gust shook the canvas a third time and it would have ripped the pegs from the ground had Namassa not been lying close to the buttoned flap. Mahariel and her mentor would be sleeping on their warm, dry cots by now if only Mahariel had not given in to her pride. It seemed that a bigger ego needed to be included on Fenarel’s list of the changes Mahariel had undergone in the time she was away.

               With a sigh, Mahariel patted the crown of her head where Fenarel had scrubbed his fist only days ago. "A whole inch!" Fenarel had said with a marvel. Mahariel had beamed, had felt like the coddled little sister rather than the brilliant young lady Fenarel claimed to see in her now. How could she return empty handed after that? No, that was not fair to Fenarel. The decision to stay had nothing to do with proving her abilities to anyone, within nor outside the Dalish; it was due to a simple yet unrelenting curiosity that ignited her desire to learn and to be better than she ever was. Ashalle and the Keeper knew what a pain that particular trait was. Tamlen knew too, though he was rather enthusiastic as oppose to exasperated. Oh, Tamlen. Mahariel laid her forearm over her eyes, taking respite from its stable weight. It was a mix of good and bad luck that Tamlen was away when Miro had cawed his message into the Keeper’s ear. Fenarel had said that Merrill volunteered to join the Keeper in meeting with the Chasind shaman, but as the First, her duty was with the camp. And Tamlen…

                “He’d fly to the village and lay waste to the shemlens,” Fenarel said as they had dined. “I suppose he might do that still even after knowing you are safe.”

                Mahariel had remained silent. Tamlen would no doubt insist to help, but then what? After he had made sure she was alive, will he smile and embrace her as the rescue party had? Or will he turn his back in silence again?

                A long sweep of wind punched the tent flap, threatened to burst in and torment its huddlers with icy slaps; in that regard, it failed. But the wind’s impact toppled Mahariel’s pack and sent its topmost content rolling toward her toes. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed, entirely drowning Namassa’s breathing. It was only when the lingering stars were blinked away from Mahariel’s eyes that she nudged the jar higher to her knee, then kneed the jar closer to her chest. As she stared at the glass in front of her, a tingle behind her eyes spread to back of her skull as the Keeper’s magic made itself known to her. It was a simple preservation spell that safeguarded the flower until it could be tended properly, whenever that may be. Soon, hopefully.

                No, no. A year.

                Frowning, Mahariel braved to slip an arm out of her bedroll and turned the jar so that the red-splattered petals were mere inches from her nose. Whatever it was that the witch girl had warned her about, Mahariel had to be back at camp - to safety - when it comes. Even if her words were based solely on superstition, still, only the reckless would dare challenge it. But it was not just superstition; Magic. Mahariel shivered and she pulled her arm back into the blankets.  Her training cannot stretch longer than a year, yet she hated to leave it undone. The last time Mahariel went at a breakneck speed, she earned a scar on her right shoulder as well as a friend among the halla. Almost anything could lead to dire situations like the incident with the Chasind. More than a couple of bones will be broken, no doubt. Dozens of bruises, possible overdose of toxins…the toll was endless. And they must be paid.

                Mahariel pushed the jar to the corner of the tent where the shadows engulfed it in silence. She swallowed past the dust in her throat as she reviewed her plans to herself. Namassa would have to agree to it first; but it was unlikely that she would reject all her suggestions. Her mentor lay still and quiet despite the noise behind the heavy canvas. The Chasind must have kept her up all night as the elders waited for Keeper Marethari to confirm that both were part of Sabrae clan and not elvhen bandits. As Mahariel watched the tall warrior take her deserved rest, it became clearer to her that her mentor – devoted in her teachings and eager to pass on her knowledge – did not truly wish to leave the Dalish camp. It was set in the squareness of her shoulders as she watched the Keeper and her chosen hunters returned home. Namassa’s duty was to Sabrae, and here she was in the middle of a storm in the Wilds. Yet she never rushed Mahariel’s training.

                With a deep breath, Mahariel let go of the thoughts in her head like cut kites in the Fereldan breeze. When the storm ends, she must be ready for a marathon.

 

Filling her mornings with sparring, afternoons with chemical crafting, and her evenings with quizzes, minutes and hours lost meaning for Mahariel. She found herself counting the weeks in terms of the lessons she had completed and the ones she had yet to do. Between her and Namassa, they had devised a schedule that would allow them to tackle as many subjects as they could without sacrificing the detail and quality of the lessons. The fast pace did not allow Mahariel to idle, not even to read the letters the Keeper occasionally sent with Miro. They were never sent to her specifically, anyway, but Namassa had read them to her before; Mahariel requested her mentor to discontinue the routine.

                Mahariel’s waking moments were entirely devoted to her training, and she revelled in it. There was immense satisfaction in twirling on her toes, ducking low as she slashed her blade behind Namassa’s knees and bringing her to ground. The blood and adrenaline that pumped through her screamed life; and the utter silence of her movements declared her worthy of her dar’misaan. _This_ was the reason she chose to accept Namassa’s mentorship, _this_ was the reason she chose to finish her training. Each night she returned to bed, sore and smiling, knowing that she could reach higher than the tallest trees in the forest.

On the fifth month, Miro returned with a note that instructed Namassa and Mahariel to move west. Mahariel strained the oils of the ground elfroot into a vial when Namassa called for her to pack.

                “The camp is moving,” her mentor said in response to Mahariel’s raised eyebrow. “We’re heading to the Frostback Basin.”

                Mahariel laid the filtering cloth on the ground, twisting her torso to watch Namassa gather the drying pots and bowls they had used for lunch. “Into Avvar territory.”

                Namassa nodded. “We have a trading agreement with a tribe connected to Stone-Bear Hold. Dihari was heavy with you the last time we were there.”

                Ashalle had mentioned that Mahariel was born in the Frostbacks, on a night glowing from the pristine radiance of snow. Judging from the crisper night air, it will not be long before the year saw its first snow. How strange that Mahariel would spend her seventeenth birthday in her birthplace, or close to it at least; in all her life of constant travelling, the Dalish camp had never stopped in the Frostbacks until now. With a smile, Mahariel packed her own journals and equipment.

                As the days shrunk and the nights grew longer toward the end of the year, travel to the Frostbacks slowed to a crawl. Although the chill air whipped Mahariel and her mentor into skirting swamps and trekking spongy ground, the often grey skies only allowed a limited time of manoeuvring through thick mist before it became more dangerous than productive. It was after a bad hunt, when Mahariel and her mentor shared the single rabbit she had managed to find, that they agreed to angle north.

                “The mires are only a day away; best we go around instead of across. We’ll be far enough from the camp, since the aravels are slowing them down,” Namassa said after a bite of her roast.

                Mahariel swatted a bug from her arm, possibly the last of its kind this season. She would not mind if heading north would bring them ahead of the clan; she would not mind anything that took her away from the damp chill embrace of the Wilds. And she definitely hoped for a chance to see the green and gold sails of Sabrae clan parting the trees, as though it were a royal parade.

               Miro arrived once more, just as the mud dried into hard-packed soil and the mist dispersed into the autumn breeze. Shielding her eyes from the morning glare, Mahariel looked over the expanse of smaller hills and farmlands that formed the Hinterlands. Unbelievable, how the whole southern Ferelden fit right into her palms. A caw from Miro had Mahariel instinctively duck; she had been pecked on the head by messenger bird one too many times. As he flapped its wings to maintain altitude, Mahariel held out her arms, offered her vembrace for Miro to land on. He lifted his beak, feathers rustling as he cooed for a groom.  Behind Mahariel, Namassa sat cross-legged on the grassy slope; she gripped the letter on one hand while the other scratched her chin. Bad news.

                “How late?” Mahariel asked.

                Namassa clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “A little more than a day.”

                Both knew they were travelling too fast. But the lack of game and edible fruit around the mires would have starved them had they not hurried. Even now that they were well beyond the marshes, the stale air lingered in Mahariel’s lungs no matter how many deep breaths she took. “Then we wait?”

                “We wait,” Namassa said, back slouching as she sighed.

                Mahariel turned back to the vista in front of her. The ruin of Ostagar was far to the east now, invisible. But it was easy to imagine where the five spires jutted above the treetops, and where one tower crumbled to form a staircase of flat teeth which swirled down into whatever room the hole had exposed. With Miro still on her arm, Mahariel eased her drawing journal from her pack, careful to lodge the flower jar between rocks to keep it from rolling. An odd weight settled on her shoulders as she flipped through the sketches of caves and ruins and rivers she had seen in the last year. And as she arrived on the thirteenth drawing of Ostagar, dated almost half a year ago, a dry chuckle rose from her tummy. Miro tilted his head, shiny eyes questioning.

                “I think I found a new subject,” Mahariel told the bird. “Hand-to-hand can wait a bit longer.”

                Mahariel fished her charcoal from her pack’s pockets, sat at the crest of the hill, and stopped time on a blank page. Momentarily, at least.


	11. First Blood is the Thickest

Silence fell among the creatures of the Wilds, and Mahariel woke with a start. There was only her breath scraping on the walls of the hillside niche that served as that night’s shelter; Mahariel reined her running heart and swept her right hand under her pillow, curled her fingers around the hilt of her knife. A slip of blue moonlight from the entrance revealed the drowned embers of campfire and the empty blankets Namassa had sat on during her watch. Mahariel untangled her blankets from her legs and rolled on her back, eyes closed.

                Something hid in the forest, and they were coming for her. No, not something – some _one._ Someone who was not trained to cloak their intent; Mahariel felt them lurking outside the shallow cave, celebrating their find. It made her stomach roil.

                A cracking stone betrayed movement. Mahariel fought her clenching muscles, forced them to relax and mimic slumber. No matter how many they were outside, they could not overwhelm her within the confines of the cave. But who exactly were they? The Avvar tribe was a day away still, Redcliffe village was too far north, the Chasind too far south. Bandits, then? The ones the Chasind themselves had encountered?

                Heat entered the shelter, as well as the salty-sour stench of sweat. The urge to gag was only overruled by Mahariel’s effort in keeping her eyes close, unmoving, even as the presence crouched by her shoulder and loomed over. The blanket lifted from Mahariel’s chest; the hand holding her knife twitched.

                “Female. Elf.” It was a man, human judging by the rough disdain in his voice. Whoever he called to answered in a garbled whisper.

                Now Mahariel knew there were at least two of them.

                The weight of the bandit hovered over Mahariel once again, this time a calloused hand touched the hair tucked into her neck. He chuckled.

                And now, Mahariel found her target.

                She pommelled the man’s throat, cutting off his delight. She opened her eyes in time to see his eyes bulge. Before the thug could gasp a cry of help Mahariel stabbed her blade into his neck. She snapped up, grabbed his leather plate and eased him quietly to the ground, then wiped the blood off her hand on his trousers. In the morning, she will burn everything from her shirt to her blankets.

                For now she belted her dar’misaan, strung her bow, and tiptoed to the farthest wall of the cave. Despite the full moon, there were not enough patches of light filtering through the thick leaves to reflect on the thickest shadows. As it were, Mahariel picked the black-blues of the trees and bushes, the greys of grass immediately outside the cave, but not a silhouette of the intruder. She crept back to her sleeping spot, where the moonlight failed to bounce its light on. The remaining intruder would have to make a choice, eventually: enter the cave or leave before the other Dalish arrived.

                Because that must be what Namassa did: divert the pursuers into a trap. The Dalish scouts were two hours away, which is how long Mahariel needed to survive. Easy enough in her position, unless of course her opponent had a gas bomb or explosives.

                Mahariel pressed her back along the walls as she crept to the mouth of the cave. Two arrows were ready between her fingers. Again, she felt the presence lurking, getting ready as she was. Difference was, this intent had less aggression; less of a beast - confident that it had trapped its prey - but more of a deer caught between helping its own or fleeing.

                Leaning her head on the stone wall with a sigh, Mahariel said, “If it is gold you want, you will not find any.”

                High above them, unbelievably far, the leaves rustled. The light swayed on the ground, languid and oblivious of the dead man’s boot it had almost touched. Then the other voice came.

                “Where’s Dren?”

                Though demanding, this voice did not carry the gravel the other one had. A young boy, perhaps, or a smaller man whose chest cannot produce a baritone.

                “Dead,” Mahariel said. A warning.

                A clang echoed in the distance, and Mahariel’s ears perked. How many raiders were there? If she and Namassa had underestimated them, then by the Creators the camp could be in danger.

                “You do not have to-“

                Light exploded. Mahariel’s feet were in the air, hands empty, head weightless. Then her left shoulder smacked into stone. Wall or ground, she did not know. But the stars twinkled above her now. And a pair of boots appeared in front of her. The cotton in her ears eventually fell off, the wind rushed in carrying the sounds of clashing swords. Words too. Something about turned noses.

                One of the boots lifted, and before Mahariel could roll, it came down on her stomach. Her jaw dropped in a gasp for air as she curled into herself, arms protecting her middle.

                “Look at you,” the voice said. “You’re no legend. Just scavengers of humanity just like the rest of us.”

                Fingers dug into Mahariel’s braid and yanked her head off the ground. Blue eyes, light as the summer sky, glared down at the weapons on her belt, then flicked up to her ears. He brought up his right fist which pulsed with violet light. “Are we not worth anything to you, Dalish?”

                It was then that his words snapped together. Mahariel pulled the man by the collar and slammed her forehead into his nose. She scrambled to her feet soon as the mage stumbled back, and drew her blades.

                Chuckling, the mage licked the blood that gushed over his lip and pushed his hair back, revealing pointed ears.  He drew his sword as well, the violet light wrapping the hilt. “We knife-ears mean nothing to you, don’t we?”

                Mahariel rolled to the right as the elvhen mage lunged. She came up on one knee, blades crossed to block the following two-handed strike. But the blow came harder than she expected and she staggered to her back. The mage raised his right fist again, brighter than before, and he leapt. Mahariel rolled away, and then was thrown away. In the ground where her head had been was a smoking hole the size of the moon in the sky. The energy around the mage’s fist flickered then died.

                “It’s unstable,” Mahariel said, panting.

                The city elf sneered. “I controlled this on my own, and it’s more than what you’ve done for us.”

                Mahariel shook her head as she got back to her feet. How could the Dalish have known? Fenedhis, that was a rotten excuse. “We have mages who can help.”

                “You‘re two decades late.”

                With a growl, the mage ran at her; this time, Mahariel caught his blade with a downward block, spun, ducked, and lashed her other blade across his unprotected inner thigh. As he sank to a knee, Mahariel elbowed his cheek and he fell on his side.

                “Please, just leave now,” Mahariel said and ran around him. The fighting in the woods grew louder now, and at one point she thought she had heard her mentor’s voice. Before she could plunge into the forest completely, light exploded behind her.

                Again, the world spun around Mahariel – the stars were under feet, then above her grasping hands. Helpless, she could not do anything but throw her arms over her head and keep her legs together in anticipation for the impact. It came harder and faster than before. Twigs and thorns pricked and clawed through her cotton clothes; she could already feel the torn skin on her belly and arms. Yet she would not stop rolling. Keeping her eyes shut and jaw locked, Mahariel kept her limbs tucked to her body; this was magic dragging her across the forest floor, and no amount of spread limbs would stop her momentum.

                But a tree did.

                Mahariel’s side hit the trunk, and she felt a crack throughout her body. Mouth open in a void gasp, she raked the grass and blinked the tears out of her eyes. To faint now would mean death. She had come so far and can go farther still; she refused to die in the blasted Korcari Wilds! Biting her lip, Mahariel pulled herself to sit against the tree. She blinked more tears and patted the ground for her weapons.

                There was only dirt.

                Mahariel gulped, blew air through pursed lips. On the count of three, she hauled herself to her feet, fingers digging into bark as her ribs threatened to puncture her lungs. She was hidden among the foliage, at least. And while she caught a glimpse of violet light far to the right, she had nothing to give away her position. The mage might see as good as Mahariel did in the dark, but the forest was her home. She did not need sight. Mahariel took as deep a breath as she could; the sticky sweet scent of bloodplants was definitely close. She followed the smell, foot padding on spongy leaves and loose soil. Behind her, the light wavered left and right, but always followed. Mahariel trailed her hands on the trunks, fingers waiting for the brush of vines.

                It was on the fifth tree that her hands finally caught the fuzzy leaves of the bloodplant. With light touches, Mahariel followed the vine higher, where it bore its fruits. This one had draped itself over the outstretched arms of the tree and created a shawl made of red teardrop berries. Mahariel fanned her hand over the vine tendrils, smiling. She plucked a handful of the fruit and crushed them in her fists. Immediately, its sweetness tickled her nose; Mahariel turned her face away from her hands. Once the fruit’s flesh and juice gloved her fingers, she headed toward the violet light.

                It was when Mahariel could see the mages’ reflective eyes that she moved to his left, her own eyes merely glanced at him. He gripped his sword with one hand, while the other was raised to light his way. That only blinded him to whatever was beyond his circle of light. Mahariel walked past him, meters to his left, and he did not notice. Had his magic manifested as the Keeper or Merrill’s had, he would have found her already – killed her, in fact.

                Instead, Mahariel drifted behind him. She clamped her stained hand over the mage’s mouth and nose; his sword arm lifted, ready to strike his elbow onto her side. Mahariel leaped back three steps. Frowning, the mage licked at the bloodplant fruit smeared on his face.

                “What are you playing at?” he said, swiping a hand down his chin. He raised his glowing hand, prepared to leap. Instead he froze mid stride and stumbled. On all fours on the ground, he gagged and wretched; the violet light flickering with his spasms. Wet plops dripped on the ground, deep red even under the light of his magic.

                Mahariel took the sword from his limp fingers and plunged it into the elvhen mage’s heart.

                Later, Namassa and the others found her gasping on the forest floor, clothes soaked through with the blood of a fellow elf. Pinpricks of light bobbed, and Mahariel cringed. Then a minty sigh washed over her side, mended flesh and bone, and just like that the noose around Mahariel’s neck was cut.

 

On account of her injuries and mild concussion, the Keeper had forbidden Mahariel to help dig the grave. But with Merrill at her side, she was at least allowed to watch as hahren Paivel held the funeral rites for the elvhen mage she had killed.

                Her request to hold a service for the elf was met by the elders and hahren Paivel himself with silence, but as Mahariel refused to leave the body – even when fatigue and pain caused her minutes of blackouts – hahren Paivel granted her request. She owed it to the city elf. All Dalish did. He was left alone to deal with his magic, hiding from the shemlens who would lock him in towers for the possible dangers of his gift, only brought out to exploit the very same gift for the empowerment of his jailers. And the Dalish roam beyond a glass wall, aware of their people’s suffering yet unwilling to break their isolation.

                Merrill took one of Mahariel’s open palms and rubbed some heat into it. “You did what you could,” she said.

                Mahariel knew that; but the weight of the sword paralysed her arm, the violet light kept her eyes open, and the blood still dripped from her fingers.

                Later in the afternoon Ashalle, the Keeper, and Namassa sat with Mahariel by the fresh mound.

                “I agree with Keeper Marethari; I must discontinue your training in the Wilds, da’len,” Namassa eventually said, a hand on her shoulder.

                Mahariel nodded.

                She sat there, knees pulled to her chest and chin rested on her knees, until the sun retired underneath the earth. Uncertain footsteps carried a lantern as the sky turned bruise-blue. There was also the aroma of onions and beef. A tray of stew was slid by her feet, the lantern propped next to it. Then long arms wrapped her shoulders, pulled her back against the heartbeat she once held in her palm.

                Tears spilled over, and Mahariel pressed her face into Tamlen’s arm. He rocked her back and forth, whispered comforts into her hair; it all made her heart clench harder.

                But as always, Mahariel’s tears dried and her shoulders stilled. Silence returned to the Wilds.


	12. What Is A Hunter Without A Blade?

Winter’s fingers gripped the spiked spine of the Frostbacks, cotton hair splayed into the heavens; its glittering breath puffed down the grey flanks of the mountain, whispering a warning of sunless skies and trackless terrain. By the end of Firstfall, winter would have its toes dipped into the Basin and the Dalish would be at its feet.

                Already, the clan ringed fires where venison, pigeon, and freshwater fish, were smoked or salted or dried. Pots boiled the syrup out of the oldest of their fruits, later to be crystalized into candies or preserved as jams. From the fire that cooked the smallest pot, hahren Paivel scooped what appeared to be mushed blueberries into a bowl and held it low for the gathered children to see. As he lectured, the children took turns in swirling their finger in the paste. The hahren did not seem to mind that his students were more concerned in licking their fingers than listening to his lesson; he had seen this behaviour from Mahariel’s generation, and was now unfazed by it.

                Elder Cygan chuckled from behind his small desk. “Why not stretch your legs and join them? It is not as though you are reading.”

                Mahariel glanced at the open square leather-bound book on her lap. For a compilation of the events of the Third and Fourth Blight - wars that both lasted no less than a decade - the pages seemed to lack girth, barely thick enough to exceed the length of her thumb. Sighing, Mahariel slipped the traded tome into the dark slot of the trunk of books by her feet.

                “Namassa is out there somewhere,” Mahariel said, tilting her head to the window.

                At this, Elder Cygan slipped a strip of paper between the pages he had been reading and laid the closed book on top of the three others on the edge of his desk.  “Had a disagreement, did we?”

                Mahariel peered at him from the corner of her eye, which made the man lean forward in his seat and fold his hands under his chin. “Perhaps I just don’t want to twirl swords today.”

                Cygan’s eyebrows rose behind the flop of brown curls. “Got tired of it?”

                Mahariel flexed her fingers. Scars stretched over now-prominent joints, and just under, green veins moved with the tendons as Mahariel pulled at the skin on the back of her hand. “We're rather soft, aren’t we? Elves and humans.”

                Though she did not look up, the interior of the aravel was made intimate by the rows and clusters of books that Mahariel felt Cygan’s mute sigh. “Compared to boars, yes; wyverns, definitely. And we are just mush to dragons.”

                “It was like cutting butter.”

                “Would you have eaten your bread dry if it meant not cutting the butter?”

                Murmurs from the clan wedged between Mahariel and Cygan. Farther north, the river raged as though it was the peak of spring, and still farther north, smoke rose from the chimneys of the robust Avvar cabins. Looming over all of them was the mountain which the Avvar hold had chiselled for their home. If the talks went smoothly with the tribe, master Ilen and the others would visit the hold soon.

                A procession of clouds ended in the sky before Mahariel brought her eyes to Cygan, who had been watching her in silence. “Is it freshly baked bread?”

                “No, it is the one Gilhan makes.”

                Mahariel laughed; it stuttered and fell off the table before it could fly. She shook her head and shrugged.

                Cygan’s eyes grew heavy; only then did the knowledge he so enthusiastically gathered for leisure seem to drag his shoulders down. He pressed his palms on the table as he sat straighter on his stool. “We tried to move our clans into action, da’len.”

                “But?”

                “But majority voted to remain apart from the politics of human nations.” With two fingers Cygan rubbed circles into his temple. “A single clan has no effective power to ‘rescue’ the city elves; no, the clans must muster enough numbers to challenge the system constructed by the Chantry. And to sneak them out would only invite military action. Suppose one clan slowly took the city elves from the alienages one a time, do you think the guards would not notice the dwindling population? You can always tell when someone else eats from your cookie jar, no?”

                Mahariel frowned, picked at a fibre that jutted from the edge of the table. “Can we challenge the Chantry? Is that _possible_?”

                 “Someone thought so,” Cygan said, his voice hid a hint of a song.

                “And we are too few for it to succeed?”

                The Elder hunched over the table between them, voice lowered conspiratorially. “Can you imagine, da’len? A gathering twice the size of arlathven; thrice if the city elves join. Our hunters coming together, our mages all in one place.”

                The frigid wind scarved Mahariel’s neck and she shivered. She flattened the fibre back into the shallow gouge it curled from with a thumbnail. “The Templars would descend on us; the hunters will fight.”

                A finger slipped under Mahariel’s chin, lifted to level her eyes with Cygan’s ice-blue ones.

                “Now is not the time, da’len. There is a glass dome of our creation that separates us from our people; and the Dalish will choose to stay behind its protection so long as it stands. Well, that was what Theleon had always said.”

                Her father? Mahariel frowned. Was the pointed gleam in Cygan’s eye a challenge? Did she imagine it? Because his words twisted in her head until the letters rearrange themselves to mean: break the glass. Before she could confront him about it, however, Cygan rapped his knuckles on the wood and inhaled deeply.

                “Ah, garlic,” he said, standing. “Come, da’len, let us find something to eat.” He swung the windows shut, crossed the room in three strides and was out the door before Mahariel could even uncurl her legs from her stool.

                She jogged after the man despite the needles that sparked up her numb legs. Three times she called for him to repeat what he had said about her father, but the Elder pretended not to hear. The two weaved between fires, Cygan always ahead and Mahariel limping behind. Until her legs awoke, that is. Free of the needles, Mahariel jogged to take her place beside the archivist.

                “What was my father like, really? Not as the Keeper.”

                Cygan popped a cherry-tomato that he had swept from a basket into his mouth. “What do you know about him?”

                “What do you think?” Mahariel scoffed.

                “We’re not getting anywhere, are we?”

                He veered right, strode behind the aravel that held their spare sails and coils of rope. Why was she even following him? She could easily ask Ashalle; her guardian had already promised answers, after all, though they were not yet due. Groaning, Mahariel stomped the weed flowers and cut in front of the storage wagon. Her momentum brought her right into a conversation between Cygan and-

                Mahariel spun on her heel, left foot ready to take her away from the fire. But Namassa’s call on her name froze her in place. To run from her a second time would only worsen the situation; still, the urge was strong enough that she hesitated for two seconds. But she did turn back to her mentor, and she read the language of her face as though she had spoken it from birth. Pity softened the grey steel of her eyes, but pragmatism pressed her lips shut and silenced any voice of regret. The latter was fair, reasonable; clay must be fed to flames in order to harden. But the former, well, it made it more difficult for Mahariel to hold her dar’missan. Was her attempt to show mercy to an enemy _that_ pathetic? Did it make her seem less devoted to her duty? Was that her failure as a hunter?

                “Are you not feeling well?” Namassa said, then shook her head as if to erase her words. “You’ve cooped yourself. Have you been eating, at least?”

                She might have, though she could not remember which dish. At her silence, Elder Cygan jumped in and invited Namassa to sit with them since they were just about to get food. As Mahariel squinted far to her left, through the thin mist at the miniscule figures coming from the tribe, Namassa politely declined. She needed to talk to the Keeper, it seemed.

                When Cygan padded to her, Mahariel glared. “Why?”

                “To prove a point.”

                She shrugged, letting her hand slap her thighs. “I still don’t understand.”

                Cygan laughed into his hand, soft and light. “Oh, it was not for you, da’len.”

                Then he slung and arm around her shoulder and shepherded her to the mess tents.

 

As master Ilen, his apprentices and a handful of hunters arrived from the avvar tribe with full quivers and a bounce to their steps, the other adolescents shot to their feet and clamoured for news. In addition to that, laughter and jibes echoed from behind the mess tents where Chandan, Irenia, and Junar took turns back-flipping on the length of a fallen tree. Merill, applauding and gasping, seemed to be their judge. The din made it easy to fade from Cygan’s attention, leaving him mid-narration about the first time he held a bow. At least he would have Mahariel’s share of greens when he notices her absence.

                The sun appeared just as it was setting; from the jagged slit between the mountain range and the clouds, it threw sparkling jewels onto the river, which - in turn - lit the underside of the rope bridge. Mahariel pulled her coat tighter as an evening gust arrived. The grass grew taller farther north of the river, tickling Mahariel’s thighs through her leggings. She ambled, feet soft, wrist twirling her bow in a languid dance, until she came to a clear patch of sunlight. Unslinging her quiver, she lay on the ground and let the grass embrace her. She closed her eyes and listened to herself breathe.

                On the seventy-sixth inhale, light flared beyond her eyelids. Mahariel’s eyes snapped open to find an orb hovering an inch from her nose. She gasped and the wisp spun away. Mahariel’s hand flew to her weapons belt. Which lacked any sort of weapon. _Fenedhis_. Wisps were harmless enough, but what did Merrill say in case otherwise Before she could recall how to banish them, the orb shot higher, spun, then bobbed downriver. It stopped once, as though to look back at Mahariel, then sped off. Where to? Mahariel pulled at a thread on the hem of her tunic. How exactly did the wisp cross the veil? Mahariel leapt to her feet and gave chase.

                The wisp darted in and out of the grass as Mahariel followed it through the endless glade; distracted though it was by wildflowers and the occasional tuskets, the wisp seemed to consciously move north west. It was only due to that certainty of direction that Mahariel did not turn back to camp. Blades of grass grew into shrubs, the shrubs into trees, and the trees became a grove. The wisp twirled once, then ducked behind a row of bushes. Four more orbs jumped to the air.

                Bow ready, Mahariel inched closer, peeked behind the bush, and stifled a gasped. A shemlen lay on his back, hands splayed at his sides, eyes shut, lips partly open.  Thick hair haloed his sharp face; two long braids woven with bones and crystals curled by his left ear. He was not in need of help, as far as Mahariel was concerned, but before she could leave the human be, the young man opened his eyes. The wisps vanished.

                Mage.

                As though called by her thoughts, the young man’s attention clinched on her. His eyes darted between the arrowhead and Mahariel’s face.

                “So the rumour is true,” he said with a lazy grin. “The Dalish have come to trade.”

                Mahariel turned on her heel and marched back the way she came.

                Rustles trailed behind her, then a loud, “Wait!”

                She didn’t. The meadow gleamed orange in the sunset and Mahariel jogged toward it. Long easy steps came after her. Mahariel wove between the trees, trying to lose the shemlen. There was no malicious intent from the mage, only the same curious energy that fluttered inside Mahariel’s head. The same curiosity that had led her to him.

                “I mean no harm.”

                That changed nothing. All that mattered was the memory of violet lights flashing at the edge of her vision.

                “There is something you must see.” The voice was louder now, somewhere to the right. “I think it belongs to your people.”

                Mahariel froze. Two steps and she would be free of the grove, free of the reminders ripping at her limbs. She waited, but did not look back. The hair on her nape rose as eyes landed on her.

                A sigh drifted from behind. “Head west and north from where you found me. Slip between the gorge and go low. Keep your left hand on the wall.”

                Mahariel chewed on her tongue, then finally gave in. “What will I find?”

                The mage chuckled, sounding too much like vindication. “Something beautiful.”

                With that Mahariel broke from the grove and ran toward home.


	13. Lukas, the Mage of Fire and Ice

Mahariel had never been as stunned as she had under the shadow of the smooth gray mountain wall covered in green and gold murals. Tamlen had never been struck speechless until Mahariel had dragged him before the painting three days ago. And Merrill had not stopped gushing trivia and thinking out loud since yesterday.

                Definitely from the time of the Dales, Merrill had agreed with the Keeper; painted when their ancestors were chased from the second homeland. The mural depicted a camp of elves, gathered around a golden fire, faces lifted in a solemn song. White wisps of smoke twined above the fire, curling and swirling into a figure of a woman crowned with live branches.

                If only they could carve out the rock face and carry the painting with them. As it were, the Keeper had settled for a sketch of the mural. Mahariel and the others had copied the figures and the colours exactly, but they were still mere copies. Many from the clan had paid homage to the relic since Mahariel had told them about it; hahren Paivel and the Elders even escorted the children so they may learn their heritage. Master Ilen and his chosen group had visited once before departing for the avvar hold. The detour led them farther from their destination, but the tears in Dedona’s eyes made it clear that the effort was worth it. Fenarel had slung an arm around Mahariel that day as he gazed at the mural.

                “You find the most wonderful things, sister,” he had said.

                Mahariel had remained silent, unable to take the credit but unwilling to tell anyone about the avvar mage who had shared this secret with her. Tamlen, of course needled her on how she came across this find.

                “Truly, lethallan,” he said now as he watched Merrill and Sareen discuss pigments. “Among those open fields and rolling hills, you just happened to stroll into this grotto?”

                No amount of wandering could have had led Mahariel there. For one, the entrance could only be approached coming from the gorge the avvar had noted. Perhaps years ago steps were carved into the mountain side and took the elves up to the cavern; now there was nothing but a narrow ledge and a straight rocky drop no less than fifty feet. Second, the break in the narrow gorge could easily mislead anyone who came upon the path. To go right would mean circling back to the lower grasslands. Ducking under the craggy fallen wall to the left was the only way to the ledge, but no one would be ecstatic to trust their life to tons of rock- well, aside from the dwarves. Third, the entrance of the cave was curtained with moss and vines, making it invisible from anywhere unless you were already three feet in front of it.

                Mahariel squinted at the jagged circular opening high above. How did that mage find this place?

                Tamlen snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Might as well be talking to the paintings.” His back thumped against the rain basin that occupied the centre of the grotto.

                He had grown another two inches since Mahariel had left for the Wilds, his cheekbones were sharper, jaw wider. Tamlen had told her similar things when she returned. With an additional, “You’re bigger. Ah, but still short.”

                Mahariel pulled at the strap of her new breastplate made from her bear hide. As if she were the only one who needed refitting; Nyrene, Tamlen’s mother, had let slip that her son needed new shirts soon before his shoulders tore the seams.

                Frowning, Mahariel pulled Tamlen’s shoulder back. “Where is your necklace?”

                His eyebrows quirked, hand flying to his collar. He pulled out the fang of the wolf he had hunted for his rite.

                “I meant the one Variel gave you; that black shard, opal?”

                “Oh, that,” he said. Then he shrugged.

                Mahariel squinted, which Tamlen turned away from. “Either you lost it, or you gave it back.”

                Tamlen turned to her so abruptly that she had to lean away lest he broke her nose with his forehead. His brows dug into his eyes as his jaw worked to mince the words he wanted to say. In the end, his shoulders sagged and he sighed.

                Mahariel fought the urge to jump to her feet and sprint around the rain basin. “She wanted it back?”

                Silence was all he would give.

                Mahariel leaned closer, forcing Tamlen to look at her. “Why?”

                Light and shadow chased each other in his blue eyes, and for a moment it looked as though Tamlen would tear up. The illusion broke as he shook his head. “I need to think more on that.”

                What did _that_ mean? Mahariel wrapped her arms around her knees in an attempt to squash the frothing bubbles in her stomach. Perhaps she had left more of herself in the Wilds than she realised.

 

It was noon when Mahariel uncurled from her bed the next day. During her late and meagre meal, Elder Cygan told her that Radhan took her place in guarding Merrill at the grotto, and that Ashalle had gone with them.  He eyed her as she slurped noodles.

                “You just can’t wait to leave me, can you?” he said with a mock pout.

                Mahariel coughed, thumped her chest, and murmured an apology. Cygan waved it off, going back to watching her eat. His eyes were rather distracted, jumping from one place to another in indecision. Were it not for her plans, Mahariel would have asked what the Elder was debating with himself. As it were, she made a haste goodbye, dumped her bowl into the wash basin, then ran off.

                There were no wisps to lead her this time; not that Mahariel needed them. She followed the thickening bases of trees, the dwindling of the purple wildflowers and the increasing mounds of pine-cones. Wind scampered on the treetops, swaying what little sunlight that passed through the lace of leaves.

                Nestled among the weave of grass and roots, under a great pine, lounged the avvar mage. He was looking directly at Mahariel as she entered the grove, as though he knew of her visit and was waiting for her arrival. Did Mahariel make another mistake by coming here? Had she stepped into danger? The mage smiled, and somehow that swept aside Mahariel’s doubts. Her hand tightened around her bow.

                “Did you find it?” the young man asked, unfolding his arms from his wide chest. His fingers drummed on the six-foot bladed staff across his lap.

                “I did.” Mahariel sidestepped closer to the tree on her left and pulled herself up on its lowest bough.

                The shemlen's smile brightened – amused by her wariness, no doubt. “Found something beautiful?”

                Mahariel’s cheeks warmed even as she frowned. When she had torn through the vines that covered the mouth of the grotto, the first thing she encountered was a bronze disk mounted on the entrance hall. She ran her hand across it and found her face smiling back at her. Of course, the mirror had been used to reflect light into the cave since the fleeing elves settled in; yet at that moment, Mahariel could not help but feel as though the mage had placed it there to humour her. To flatter her.

                “How did you find it?” she asked.

                “My teacher told me,” he said with another secretive smile.

                She studied the assortment of bones dangling from his two braids – parts of finger bones, most of them. “And who is your teacher?”

                “His name is Gardi. Mine is Lukas. What is yours?”

                There was no reason to tell him her name. After all, the mage could have claimed a false identity. Though why he would do that, or why Mahariel thought that he would, she wasn’t sure. Instead of introducing herself she asked, “Are there more elvhen paintings in this area?”

                Lukas laughed but did not address her obvious evasion. “If there are, then I don’t know where.”

                He stretched out his legs and back, yawning a little; the definition of languid. But Mahariel’s training hardwired her senses into full alert at all times; her body did not allow her to lower her bow even if her brain wanted more information from this mage.

                “And your teacher?”

                He shrugged. “Maybe he is keeping them to himself.”

                Mahariel frowned. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

                “I try to study when lovely visitors aren’t about.”

                Lovely, was it?

                "I assume you took a nap instead.” Mahariel laughed and pointed at his creased coat and green-stained furs.

                Lukas sat up then, head tilted, an odd light in his green eyes. “I can tell you about other things if you tell me your name.”

                She stared down her nose at him. “What other things?”

                The mage raised his hands over his lap and opened his palms. Fire blazed in his left hand while moisture frosted over his right. He wriggled his fingers and the ice sculpted itself into a bear, the flames burst into an eagle. They flew off Lukas’ hands and raced in the air.

                Magic! Of course.

                Mahariel dropped off her perch and sat in front of Lukas. “You may call me Mahariel,” she said.

                Lukas grinned; and this close, Mahariel noticed that one of his front teeth was slightly longer than the other.

                A voice muttered from the back of Mahariel’s mind, lecturing how dangerous the shemlen mage could be, how foolish she was for meeting him on her own. Mahariel had never been so eager to silence the voice of caution until Lukas began a story of Korth the Mountain-Father.

 


	14. It Starts With a Kiss

Snow shimmered in rainbows as the fire-doe grazed its way toward the round thatched hut tucked into the hillside. Mahariel stuck close to it for warmth, occasionally grinning up at Lukas. It seemed as though it cost nothing for the mage to control fire with such precision, to shape the element into a deer and make it move as if alive. His mana must take a toll; not even the Keeper had done something like this. None that Mahariel witnessed, anyway.

                Mahariel reached out to its flickering flank, but Lukas caught her hand.

                “You’ll still get burned,” he said.

                Resigned, Mahariel dropped her hand; she counted up to five before Lukas let go.

                They ambled up the hill, boots crunching stone and ice. Dead leaves tumbled over their feet as the wind swooped and surged. Behind them was the grove they had often met at, the only green in the now blue-and-white landscape. The mountain-hold loomed to their right, and Mahariel imagined Fenarel surrounded by human warriors. Had he slept last night? Did any of master Ilen’s company manage to sleep in a foreign place?

                “I have a question for you,” Lukas said as they took a turn that put the mountain behind them. His knuckles brushed against hers as he matched his pace with her smaller steps.

                Mahariel peeked at his bare arms – long and meaty and dusted with dark hair. The real question here was why Lukas had bothered to don woolen pants and wrap his waist with fur but chose to wear sleeveless robes. Granted, there was a certain appeal to the way the light and shadows danced up and down his arms as he swung them at his side; the way it emphasized how he and she contrasted in size, complexion, and build. His hands already proved capable of enveloping hers.

                “So,” Lukas said, to which Mahariel responded with a blink. “My question?”

                 They started the game on their second meeting – third, if the accident with the wisps were to be counted. They traded questions and answers, and agreed that if one crosses the boundary, all the other has to do was remain silent.

                Lukas’ hesitance at firing his question had Mahariel raising an eyebrow. “What is it?”

                He stepped into her path, lifted his hand, and touched the tips of his fingers to her cheeks. Mahariel pressed her lips tight.

                “I’ve seen your kin in the Hold,” Lukas said, eyes deep as a lake that Mahariel did not want to step into. “They wore tattoos on their faces, but yours is bare.”

                Lukas ran a finger under her earlobe and Mahariel shivered, her body admitting just how bare she felt. Schooling her face to be a blank canvas, she asked, “Is that a problem?”

                Flares erupted from the fire-doe as Lukas laughed. “Visually, no. But the implications…”

                He turned and ushered the fire creature he created into a circle of low benches that fronted the small hut. In the middle was a stone ring banked with wood. The doe stepped into it and dissolved into campfire. Mahariel sighed.

                Lukas chuckled, and when Mahariel met his eyes, she noticed that odd light again. He touched his palm to the hut’s door and it swung open. Lukas’ study. Looking at the towers of books on the floor, glass beakers and vials of _things_ on shelves, and the chalk glyphs on two tables, the place looked more like a mages’ hoard.  A low wooden platform covered with thick furs and heavy wool served as a bed; it was shoved to the back corner, as though sleep was a secondary concern for the mage.

                Mahariel plucked a tube with golden liquid from a rack on the shelf to her right. “Dragon urine?”

                Lukas threw his head back and laughed again. He had rather pointy canines. “Wyvern, actually. And a number of other things.”

                Mahariel set the glass down. And here she thought it was a grand colour for a vallaslin. As she walked around the room, running her hands over the chalk spells and the leather spines of books, Lukas watched her from the door. She could feel his eyes on her, wondering and waiting.

                “The tattoos on our faces,” Mahariel finally said. “They are called _vallaslin_ – blood writing. Our Keeper marks us when we come of age…”

                Mahariel practically felt Lukas deflate, and she smiled at his reaction. She lifted a book, shifted through its pages, and placed it back on its tower.

                “I see,” Lukas said, sounding like he’d rather not see at all.

                Would it be cruel to prolong his disappointment? Mahariel turned to Lukas’ tight expression. “Mine is overdue.”

                He blinked. Then frowned. “How so?”

                “I could have received the rite around a year ago, but I opted not to. For now, at least.”

                He stepped into the room now, hands clasped behind him, a skeptical smile tugging at his lips. “Why would you do that?”

                Mahariel raised her eyebrows. “Have you tried being drawn on with needles?”

                 He nodded.

                Stepping back, Mahariel ran her eyes over him. Not on his face or arms obviously. “Where?”

                Lukas leaned closer and the temperature soared to the heavens. “Care to guess?”

                An image of his naked broad back flashed in her mind. Musk of leather and hide tickled Mahariel’s nose; were Lukas’ teeth always that white? Mahariel took a breath and shook her head. “Now I have question for you: the other day, that story about the bone queen.”

                Lukas’ playful smile was painted over with a serious mask. When they met last by the creek just at the bottom the hill, he had entertained her with a story of an outcast woman who had gained power and respect by hiking the corpses of her enemies. On the very last scene, she sat on her throne of bones, her silverite crown glinting against her black hair, dark eyes watching over her people even as her hand held her sword.

                “I came up with it on the spot; I thought you liked it,” Lukas said.

                She did. But as she walked back home that night, mulling over his stories, she realised something. “She looks like me.”

                Lukas tried for a nonchalant shrug, but the hint of his smile was back. “You were my inspiration for that story. Did I offend you?”

                Offend was not the word Mahariel would use. Contrary, she liked the thought of Lukas seeing her as an unstoppable force of steel and cunning. But was there a truth to that image? She could hardly look at her dar’misaan since-

                “Mahariel?”

                There was worry in Lukas’ eyes now. “I still like the bone queen,” Mahariel assured him. “Next question -”

                Lukas held up his hand. “My turn now.”

                His expression turned serious again, but his eyes shone with…anticipation? Anxiety? He took a step forward, so close that the fur around his waist pressed onto Mahariel’s stomach. She even needed to crane her neck up to keep her eyes on his. Mahariel bit her tongue in effort to keep her eyes from straying. As if following her thoughts, his eyes darted lower. Mahariel took a deep breath.

                “May I?” Lukas asked.

                Mahariel fumbled for words that swarmed around her like angry hornets. All she could grab was “Why?”

                A thoroughly amused smile spread on Lukas’ lips – which Mahariel tried very hard not to stare at. “Because you make me laugh. Because I like _your_ laugh. Because you are incredibly unreadable.”

                “Hardly that.” Mahariel laughed – shaky and high-pitched. “Lukas, I haven’t – I don’t know how.”

                Lukas cupped her face, effectively racing Mahariel’s heart-rate at dangerous speeds. “Allow me to lead. May I?”

                Yes, he may. No matter how many times. The words could not get pass her mouth, so she nodded. Lukas leaned in, eyes closing; how could such a big man have long feather-light lashes?

                The first one was no more than a touch of his lips on hers, but it was so foreign and soft and warm that it sent shocks to every nerve in Mahariel’s body. She gasped. And that was how it started. She let Lukas set the pace, though her hand that found itself tangled in his long hair ordered him not to stop. Only when their breaths were ragged did they part; Mahariel realised that she now sat on the table; her legs were wrapped around Lukas’ waist, his hands clutched her hips. Lukas’ eyes were wide and glowing, his cheeks darker from the rush of blood.

                Mahariel laughed and kissed him again.

 

Snow started falling again as Mahariel hunted for Merrill amid the bustle of camp. She found her by the light of a fire, glaring at a paper. Her head snapped up as Mahariel called her name.

                Mahariel grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her aravel, locking the door behind them.

                “Who is chasing you?” Merrill asked, staff in hand.

                “What?” Mahariel laughed. The sound surprised Merrill so much that she stepped back as if she were slapped.

                “Did you hit your head, lethallan?”

                “Oh, Merrill.” Mahariel twirled her around twice. “Ask me what happened today.”

                Silence. Then cautiously, “What happened? You are so very red.”

                Mahariel shucked off her armour and tunic before pulling Merrill to her bed. “Promise me this stays between the two of us.”

                “Of course, lethallan.”

                Where should Mahariel start? Two weeks ago when she first stumbled upon Lukas? Four days ago when Lukas had braided her hair in the manner of his people? The other day when Lukas made her an ice flower? Mahariel fanned herself with her hand. Winter was starting in earnest, but a fire-doe did not seem necessary to keep the cold at bay.


	15. One's Loss is the Other's Gain

Mahariel hopped - from roots to stones to hard-packed snow – around the fire where Tamlen had thrown the bogfisher innards. For the first five minutes, Tamlen had whistled in time with her jumps. But as the animal proved harder to gut and skin than he originally expected, he grew quiet until he did not talk at all. He broke his concentration once to ask for Mahariel’s help.

                “Lethallan,” Tamlen said again. “If you decided to start hunting again, will you please help in cleaning the game?”

                 Mahariel leapt to a rock outcrop, twirling so that she faced the swamp instead of Tamlen and his bloody business. “I already helped by bringing it down.”

                Tamlen sighed. His knife _chop-chop-chopped_ in the diluted afternoon light. “Do you still have dreams about-”

                “Tamlen.”

                The fire hissed as it ate another organ. Mahariel sank on the rock, tucked her knees under her chin, and tented her cloak around her legs.

                “They will not leave unless you let them go, Mahariel.”

                “Really? Because I didn’t even remember them up until now.” A lie, of course. That elvhen mage and the human bandit were worse than greasy imprints burned into her mind. But what would Tamlen know? All that fell victim to his arrows and his blade were wild animals.

                The afternoon hushed, bird calls were muffled by the snow in the higher lands, bogfisher hooves were cushioned by soggy shrubs that thrived in the basin. Mahariel’s feet itched to step back into home ground, heavy with snow as the camp would be. Then there was the meeting with Lukas on the last day of Firstfall. Three more days. Her cheeks warmed at the thought and she blew into her hands to hide her face.

                “I’m sorry,” Tamlen said.

                Mahariel looked over her shoulder and sighed. Dark crescents shadowed Tamlen’s eyes; from the four-day hunt or something else, Mahariel wasn’t sure. Orange gleam from the fire highlighted his nose and cheekbones, making the gaunt in his cheeks all the more hollow.

                “I’m sorry as well. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

                Tamlen funnelled the cut meat into the earthen jar, stuck his knife into the ground, jogged to the pond behind them. When his hands were clear of blood and gore, he returned and knelt in front of Mahariel.

                “There is something else.” His brows knotted. The mark of Mythal, the protector, twisted on his skin, not knowing what to do with itself. Tamlen chewed on his lip as he ordered his thoughts. “When you left with master Namassa, I acted like a child. I had no right to be angry and my own words ate me every night that you-” He groaned and thumped his head on Mahariel’s knees. “I was scared for you, lethallan. By no means does it excuse how I treated you, and I am sorry.”

                Mahariel stared at the back of Tamlen’s head. The chafe of the skip rope in her hands when Tamlen had turned his back to her faded long ago, but she remembered the burn in her throat as she tried to swallow the tears. “Tamlen, I already forgave you. We were both stubborn, but we’ve gotten past that.”

                “But I still can’t admit it.”

                “Admit what? That you made a mistake?”

                Tamlen’s shoulders stiffened. “Not that.”

                Mahariel realised the words were not meant for her ears. She ran her hand through his hair, humming an airy tune, until she felt Tamlen’s muscles uncoil. Eventually, he pushed back to his feet and gathered their packs.

                “Mahariel, we are on good terms, yes?” Tamlen asked, eyes down as he kicked soil into the fire.

                Mahariel braved a smile. “Of course we are. Now get that jar and let’s go home.”

                Good terms; as though they were merely acquaintances. Were they not friends? Or best of friends? Or…well, anything else? Mahariel tried to sooth the sting in her chest, but Tamlen’s words bit hard.

 

Soon as they arrived at camp the next morning, Mahariel pulled Fenarel away from hammering cart wheels; she stopped briefly by the halla pen to borrow Merrill from the new calf. Mahariel sat her friends down at the end of the bridge on the far side of the river.

                “Something is bothering Tamlen,” she said.

                Fenarel slapped a hand to his face and leaned his head on the rope railing. He muttered, “Not this again.”

                Next to him, Merrill wriggled her toes against each other. “Have you tried asking him?”

                Well, Mahariel would not have needed to endure winter’s breath holding a ridiculous secret meeting if that were the case. “I can’t.”

                “Dare we ask why?” Fenarel sounded like he’d rather be fixing wheels. His hood was pulled low over his face, hiding his eyes.

                Mahariel squinted at him. “Variel.”

                “Aaah,” said Merrill, now redder than before.

              Fenarel did not move or make a sound; he might as well have blown the warning horn.  “You share a tent, lethallin,” Mahariel pressed.  “You two must have your talks, and I know he goes to you for advice.”

                “Only when you are…unavailable.”

                His words crawled up under Mahariel’s shirt like ants. Mahariel rolled her shoulders, and finding that she could not shrug off the phantom insects, she crossed her arms. “Unavailable? I’m in camp majority of the day, which is how the situation will be until the snow cracks. Besides, Tamlen knows where to find me.”

                Merrill pursed her lips at the last sentence while Fenarel raised an eyebrow. Perhaps there were places Tamlen would not even think of to look for her. Still, he knew where her aravel was. Tamlen must not want her to know, but why? Then a thought hit her, whipping her spine into a frozen metal rod.

                “Does this have something to do with me too?” Mahariel asked, staring wide-eyed at Fenarel. The latter sunk deeper into his coat, answered with a single moan.

                Oh, by the Creators.

                Mahariel threw her arms in frustration. “He made you promise. Fine. Fair enough.” With defeat laughing and pointing at her, she plopped herself next to Merrill, linking their arms for warmth. Faint sunlight shone through gauzy clouds, but it did little to combat the crisp air.

                “You two really should talk,” Fenarel said after a while. Merrill agreed with a hum.

                Growling, Mahariel pressed her face on her hands. “We are…I don’t know. It’s different between us, somehow. I just can’t bring myself to talk to him about certain things. ”

                At this, Merrill perked up and gave Mahariel a look. A look the latter was sure Fenarel caught. Instead of commenting however, Fenarel merely stood, brushed his cloak, and said, “He was –is afraid.”

                “He told me that much.”

                “Afraid of what?” Merrill asked.

                Fenarel pointed at her. “That, lethallan, is what Mahariel should think about.”

                He turned and marched back to camp, and the two women watched his cloak billow in the wind.             

                Merrill laid her head on Mahariel’s shoulder and murmured, “I think Fenarel has a bit of a flair for the dramatic.”

                Mahariel smiled so suddenly that her lips cracked. She pressed her fingertips to soothe the dry skin, and the warmth fished images from her mind: Lukas’ thumb between her teeth; his tongue dipping under her ear. A sound broke from Mahariel’s throat and she slapped her hands over her mouth.

                Too late. Merrill heard and she now stared at Mahariel with those big innocent eyes. “What was that?”

                “Hiccup.”

                The narrowing of Merrill’s eyes clearly said she did not believe Mahariel’s lie. But, the Creators bless her, Merrill dropped the subject. She lifted her head and almost butted Mahariel’s chin had the latter not felt Merrill’s muscles shift. As it were, Mahariel leaned back just in time, ready for whatever popped into Merrill’s mind.

                “Since we are both here,” Merrill began, gesturing at herself then at Mahariel. “I wanted to tell you first, lethallan.”

                Mahariel faced her, their knees pressed against each other.

                “The keeper just told me this morning: I am ready to take my vallasllin.” Before Mahariel could pull Merrill into her arms so they could jump around in the snow, Merrill took her hands between hers. “Will you help me prepare, Mahariel? There is no one else-“

                Now Mahariel _did_ pull Merrill to her feet, embraced her by the waist, and twirled her three times. Laughs and squeals soared up to the sky, joining a wedge of grey birds heading north. When Mahariel set Merrill back on the ground, she cupped her face and said, “Of course I will, lethallan. I’d be honoured to do so. Have you chosen a mark? When are you taking the rite?”

                Merrill laughed behind her hands, cheeks brighter than any flower. “I decided to follow Dirthamen, though I’m not yet sure when I’ll be marked.” Her smile broadened. Spring in the midst of winter. She laced her fingers with Mahariel’s own and together, they strolled toward camp.

                “We’d better get you back,” Merrill said. “Master Namassa would be waiting.”

 

Indeed, the head warrior sat on a wood block with her bared sword across her lap. She and Mahariel had cleared the western area of the camp of stones for their private training several days ago. Distance from the common training grounds, which edged the east wing of camp, served to limit distractions on both sides. That was well and good. Though Namassa’s choice to train downwind of the cooking pits seemed plain cruel to Mahariel. As she and Merrill approached, Namassa tucked the rag she was using to clean her blade and studied them.

                “Since Merrill is here, why don’t we practice with polearms first.” Namassa plucked the two poles leaning on the tree behind her and threw one each to the newcomers.

                Mahariel and Merrill stared at each other, poles tilting in their hands.

                “You want us to spar?” Mahariel asked.

                “Me against Mahariel?”

                Namassa’s eyes roved over Merrill, which made her fidget. “It won’t hurt to practice using your staff as a weapon. The Keeper taught you the basics?”

                Merrill nodded. “And a little bit more than that.”

                Namassa clapped her hands then moved back to the stump she had sat on. “Begin!”

                Mahariel wished she could say she had gone easy with Merrill, that she had not given her friend bruises all over her body. She purposely missed her first opening, when Merrill was more focused on her attack and allowed her left side unprotected. Merrill scowled at her and swung her pole in a wild arc. Mahariel caught it across her own pole before it cracked her ribs, but the impact sent a shock up her arm. Mahariel blinked at the knots in Merrill’s brow; she ground her teeth so hard that Mahariel could almost hear them crack.

                She knew what Mahariel did and she hated it. Of course she did. Shaking her head, Mahariel smiled. She never missed an opening afterwards. She knocked Merrill to her knees three times, and each time she offered her hand to her Merrill rose fiercer than before, trying the moves done to her. Mahariel countered, not allowing her opponent to touch her.

                By the time Namassa clapped her hands to end the fight, sweat plastered Merrill’s hair across her forehead. She was bent over, panting and laughing simultaneously.

                “I don’t think anyone is surprised by this outcome,” she said, leaning on her pole.

                Namassa patted her on the shoulder. “Had you used your magic, you could have knocked Mahariel on her back. Permanently.”

                “I’m allowed to use magic?”

                “I never said you could not.” Namassa shrugged and waved for Merrill to rest under the shade. She picked up two blunted swords, handed one of them to Mahariel.

                Mahariel wrapped her fingers around the hilt. The sword was too stiff, too clunky. She swung the broadsword experimentally, nose crinkling with dissatisfaction.

                “Would you rather use your own weapon?” Namassa asked.

                 Mahariel gritted her teeth, widened her stance, and lowered her center.

                Her blade flew out of her hand too many times for Mahariel’s liking. Bruises bloomed on her arms, sides, and thighs. And as the clouds returned to hide the sun, her fingers had lost their feeling completely. Namassa stuck her blade into the soil, hands folded over the pommel.

                “This is the result of skipping on your training.”

                Mahariel kept her eyes where the ground swallowed her mentor’s blade. It was only a few days since they resumed swordplay, and Mahariel felt how much she had lagged behind in the trembling of her muscles, the quickness of her breath. Her physical condition was downright unacceptable. She could do better. She _had_ done better. So when Namassa ordered her to bring her dar’misaan the next day, Mahariel bit down on her dread and nodded.

 

Supper consisted of bogfisher stew - which Mahariel had never tasted before, nor did she have the interest to do so after seeing the animal up close. That left smoked fish, surprisingly fresh greens, and winter berries. Usually the lack of red meat would have shrivelled Mahariel’s stomach on the spot; as it were, she didn’t have an appetite in the first place to be moved by the lacking meal. Only her begging sore muscles convinced Mahariel to at least eat one dish.

                As she carried her plate of fish and vegetables to where Fenarel, Merrill, and Tamlen sat by a fire, she caught the trailing voice of Dedona.

                “…and he says, ‘Less strange than walking barefoot in the mountains.’ _Us,_ strange.” Dedona shook her head, eyes on the dark blotch of the mountain hold. “We are not the ones walking half-naked in the dead of winter.  Do they not freeze?”

                “It must be the hair,” Mahariel commented as she passed.

                The whole table turned to look, Dedona gasped and pointed a fork at her. “And their hair! Oh, they must itch all over. And how they coil their braids on their head without their necks breaking, I will never understand.”

                Mahariel smiled; perhaps she would get answers for Dedona from Lukas.

                “Why are you smiling like that,” Tamlen asked as Mahariel took her seat next to Merrill.

                “They’re talking about the shemlen,” Mahariel said, gesturing over her shoulder at Dedona’s table.

                “And you are amused, why?”

                Fenarel elbowed Tamlen. “If you stopped and actually think, lethallin, you’ll realise that we have some similarities with the avvar. And _that_ is interesting.”

                “Shunned by the Chantry, living in the wilderness,” Mahariel said. Belief in spirits, guided by a mage, worship multiple gods. She kept that last part to herself, since she could not have known those facts on her own.

                “What was it like in the Hold?” Merrill asked.

                Fenarel admitted that they were not allowed to wander freely, although he recounted the things he was able to see within the avvar territory: the butcher’s hut, the outside of their armoury, part of their forges.

                Tamlen heaved a sigh and muttered, “They’re still shemlen.”

                That was one of the reasons why Mahariel did not want to tell him about Lukas. Mahariel ate every piece she had in her plate, Fenarel’s words mere buzzing in her ears as she tried not to think of what might happen if Tamlen were to find out she was meeting with a human mage. She peeked at Tamlen, and her eyes met his. How long had he been watching her? Icicles slid down Mahariel’s spine even as flames brushed her face. She dared not look away first. It felt like losing; admitting a secret. So she held his eyes, and she had a feeling that he thought the same thing: the secret had to remain a secret.

                A shriek echoed from the next table. Mahariel and Tamlen’s eyes snapped toward Variel, who waved a card over her head in triumph. Then Mahariel felt Tamlen’s eyes back on her; she pretended not to notice. Only when Tamlen stood and announced that he was off to bed did Mahariel look at him.

                She wanted to leap over table, grab the back of his collar, and demand to know what he was not telling. Instead, Mahariel stabbed her vegetables. This business was solely between Variel and Tamlen. She had no right.

               She repeated those words to keep from throwing herself into a burning pit like a pile of bogfish innards.


	16. Pillow Talk

The fire danced and cackled long before footsteps climbed the hill to Lukas’ hut. Mahariel stroked the coals she had lit, coaxing the flames brighter and hotter than the morning sun. When Lukas reached crest, his feet stuttered as his eyes landed on her. He blinked once, mouth hanging open, then he laughed.

                “You’re early,” he said, taking a seat next to her.

                “You’re late.”

                Lukas unstrapped a bag from his shoulder, which jingled the contents a little. “The augur wanted to talk to me.”

                “Your mage leader, the one who communes with your gods.”

                Lukas beamed at her, and Mahariel noticed the short hair that grew all over his jaw and chin. “So you do listen to what I’m saying.”

                The stubble made him look older, even though they were close in age. The shadows casted by his high cheekbones looked darker, deeper with the addition of the hair. Dedona’s words echoed in her mind, about shemlens and hair and itching. Before Mahariel could ask, Lukas pulled thick glass tubes filled with coloured paste: white, black, blue, red, green, and yellow. He set them by their feet in a row, and then rummaged his bag again. Now, he fished a roll of paper and a bundle of brushes.

                “You promised to teach me how to paint,” he said.

                Mahariel grinned. “And you promised to teach me how to breathe fire.”

                Lukas pointed a finger skyward, winked. He pulled the last item from his bag: a bottle with clear liquid. “Alcohol,” he announced. “I suggest we do the fire breathing last. I want to make at least one painting before you burn down my study.”

                Mahariel showed him which paint should be mixed with what to get the colour he wanted. Then she demonstrated how she painted, occasionally explaining how things looked bluer the farther they were, or how simply dotting yellow paint over green could resemble trees. Lukas was silent for the most part, his own mounted paper in front of him, turned slight away from Mahariel’s view. His eyes flicked between the expanse of rolling land in front of them and his work.

                The dewy haze cleared by the time Mahariel put her brush down. Her sky was bluer than the one over her head, and her snow-dusted land twinkled less than the one at the base of the hill. Satisfied, she leaned the wood panel against one of the benches and turned to Lukas.

                “How are you doing?”

                A smile crept to his lips. He glanced at the landscape Mahariel did, then to Mahariel herself. “Someone once told me that beauty finds beauty.”

                Mahariel scoffed. But there was no denying the grin on her mouth, the redness on her ears, the fluttering in her stomach. While she waited for Lukas to finish, Mahariel nibbled on the sweets the mage had brought. They were long rectangular pieces made of peanuts. Though they were thin enough to break apart by hand, there was a toughness to them that scratched her tongue. They were also the stickiest snack Mahariel had ever held.

                She was hallway through her fourth bar when Lukas called her over. She licked her fingers clean as she sat on his bench. She froze.

                A finger still in her mouth, Mahariel stared at herself staring at the horizon. Her skin was a pale cream under the light of their small fire, her arching eyebrows done in a blue so dark that it appeared black. Her equally dark hair draped over her left shoulder in a loose braid. There was a faint golden halo around her head, lending a noble look to her high forehead. The softness of her cheek and the gentle drop of her nose balanced the sharp slash of her ears.

                Mahariel blinked at her profile twice. “You lied,” was all she could say.

                Lukas had the biggest, whitest smile on his face. He had to bite his lower lip to hold his laughter in.

                “You can paint.”

                “Rather good at it too,” Lukas said, holding out the painting.

                Mahariel covered her face. She must have sounded so patronizing, talking about illusion of perspective and such. Lukas laughed that rumbly laugh of his, and Mahariel wanted to push him off his seat.

                “I enjoyed this! Shall we move on to fire breathing?”

                Mahariel sat up and punched Lukas in the arm. That only made him laugh more. He took Mahariel’s hand in his and lifted it to his lips. The graze of his stubble on her skin made her gasp. And that small sound deactivated the whole world. The fire stopped crackling, leaves seized to rustle in the wind. Even her breath was mute. There was only Lukas’ lips on her skin and that blazing light in his eyes.

                “Do it,” Lukas said. The spell broke and the world crashed back into focus.

                “What?” It was more a rasp than a word.

                 “You wanted something; take it.”

                Mahariel was sure her blood would start fountaining out of her ears. She licked her dry lips. Lukas set his painting on the bench and leaned closer.  His eyes never left hers; for the first time, Mahariel wanted to plunge into dark water.

                Lukas’ voice was deeper than ever, clear as a creek. “Kiss me.”

                Mahariel did. Her fingers latched onto his long hair, pulling back as she rose to her knees, her other hand fisted around Lukas’ shirt. She parted his lips with her own, and she dipped her tongue into his mouth. Lukas moaned. The vibrations in his chest ran up Mahariel’s body, driving her to push closer. An arm embraced her waist, a hand grabbed her thigh.

                Suddenly Mahariel was off the ground. They were inside the hut. Then on the fur covers of the bed. Lukas kissed her neck, biting and licking, while his hands worked to unstrap her armour. It took him too long, so Mahariel pushed him and handled the familiar buckles herself. Lukas watched, eyes dark, as the pieces fell to the floor one by one until all that was left was her undershirt and leggings. It was only then that Mahariel’s brain worked again. Was this right? Was she ready for this? Did she want to expose herself to Lukas in this manner?

                As Lukas shrugged off his coat and pulled his robes over his head, Mahariel decided that yes, she wanted this. Her hands slid up the planes of his stomach to his wide chest. There were hair there too, and Mahariel was surprised to know that they were not course as she had imagined. She clasped her hands behind his neck and pulled him down for another kiss. He laid her on the bed and settled his weight between her legs. Mahariel’s head spun in colour and sound: Lukas’ green eyes, her white shirt tumbling to the floor, his low chuckle, her ragged breath. Mahariel wedged a finger between her teeth as Lukas kissed her breasts. His hair tickled her stomach, raising goosebumps up her arms.

                Down, down, down he went until his teeth found the band of her leggings. Lukas raised his eyes to hers in permission. Mahariel nodded. His hands travelled the length of her legs leisurely, stopping twice to give a playful squeeze. Then his fingers closed around the hem of her leggings. Mahariel kept her eyes on the ceiling as she lifted her hips; she would combust if she looked into Lukas’ eyes at that moment. When his kisses began at her ankles her eyes closed completely. More than once, Lukas’ stubble grazed her inner thigh, and a whimper would be freed from Mahariel’s open lips. And as Lukas finally reached the most sensitive part, her small gasps became unabashed moans.

                Lightning storms raged through Mahariel’s body and she did not want them to stop. Her demands started when Lukas’ fingers began to move. But he slowed his pace, teasing. Eventually, Mahariel grabbed his hair and pulled him up. His full weight settled on her and the breath was driven out from her lungs.

                She ran her thumb on his lower lip and said, “You want something. Take it.”

                Lukas smiled, and he took her.

 

Mahariel found her leg thrown over Lukas’ waist when she woke up. A hand ran down her back, playing with her unbound hair. Light rainbowed off the vials on the desk and glinted along book titles, however not a single object cast a shadow. Mahariel bolted upright, surprising Lukas.

                “What time is it?”

                Lukas rubbed his eyes. “Almost noon. Must you leave?”

                Perhaps she should; the clan would have noticed her absence by now. Yet Mahariel shook her head and snuggled back against Lukas’ side.

                “I heard something about your people, Lukas.”

                “I can say the same about yours.”

                Mahariel twirled one of Lukas’ braids around her finger. “One of my clan-mates said the Avvar plait their hair in thin bands and bind them high on their head.”

                “Hm. Not all Avvar do so. Each tribe differs.”

                “Why do you only have two braids?”

                Lukas pursed his lips, and Mahariel thought she touched something forbidden. But then Lukas said, “I have to finish my studies first. I suppose it is similar to your _vallaslin_. My skills in combat are enough to earn my rite as a warrior, and my father had recognized me as a man. But I have yet to prove myself as a mage.”

                “To the augur?”

                “The one and only.”

                “Is that why he wanted to talk to you?”

                Lukas rolled to his side, arms pulling Mahariel closer to him. “That is part of it.”

                Mahariel tried to imagine Lukas’s hair, twisted and bound, slashing down his spine. There was a certain elegance to it coupled with his angular features. On the other hand, the weight and silkiness of his tresses around her fingers was alluring. She gathered his hair in one fist, twirling it around her hand before sliding along its length. The strands fell on the pillow like fine cocoa dusting.

                “Are you to succeed him?” At this, Lukas nodded his confirmation. “Do you want to?”

                 Lukas closed his eyes, breathing deep and slow. “Yes, and no. Being augur, well, the duty carries many fascinating aspects of the world unknown to most – and that’s all I’m going to say on that matter.” His eyes opened, a little shiny. “But if I become augur, that means the current one has died.”

                Mahariel laid her head on his chest, almost lulled to sleep with  its rise and fall. After a while she asked, “How do you prove yourself?”

                Lukas crossed a finger over his lips. “That, I can’t tell.” He rolled over Mahariel and planted a foot on the ground.

                Clinks and thuds sounded from below the bed, making Mahariel raise a questioning eyebrow. Lukas’ answer came in the form of a teardrop-shaped vial full of gooey clear liquid.

                “Witherstalk sap,” Lukas said as he handed the tincture to her. “It should work for elves too. Drink it for now, unless you have elvhen preventatives with you?”

                 Mahariel rolled her eyes and put on a pout. “You’re rather prepared.”

                Lukas shrugged; its casualness moot with a smile plastered on his face.

                As soon as Mahariel uncorked the vial she gagged and turned her face away. Lukas had to brace her hand to avoid spilling the sap. Pinching her nose, Mahariel poured the entire content into her mouth and swallowed. Lukas’ nose crinkled in sympathy. Then he tilted his head, an idea lighting his eyes. He drew Mahariel’s hand away, tilted her chin up, and licked the aftertaste right off her tongue.

 

                When the time came for Mahariel to leave, Lukas made no move to get up. Instead, he watched as she donned her clothes and armour with a smirk in his eyes.

                “May I keep the paintings?” he asked as Mahariel knotted the leather at the tail of her braid.

                She smiled. “They are yours.”

                After one last kiss Mahariel closed the door behind her, paused to admire the drying paintings, then jogged down the hill. It was only when she reached the open fields did she jump and whoop. Oh, she can’t wait to tell Merrill! How will she tell her? What should she tell her? Every detail? A summary? Mahariel shook her head. First she had to get Merrill alone.

 

The Keeper’s First was watering the flower the young Chasind witch had given Mahariel. If it weren’t for Merrill’s encouraging coos, Mahariel would not have thought to check behind her aravel. Shaded by the extended tarpaulins, Merrill’s slight build was easy enough to mistake as an anchoring pole.

                “Oh, there you are!” Merrill chirped as Mahariel approached.

                The potted flower sat on the outer ledge of the window; droplets hang by the tips of its leaves and thorns. As it were from the moment the Chasind girl had given it to her, the plant only had a single stalk. However, in the past year, it had sprouted three more buds which had yet to bloom.

                “Is it dying?” Mahariel asked.

                Merrill frowned. She grazed her thumb over the edges of the overlapping petals. “All my life I’ve been warned about demons and blood magic and abominations. But I was never as scared as I was when I saw the Keeper march from camp with a dozen hunters.” Merrill looked at Mahariel then, her mouth pressed in a stern line. “I don’t think you should say those things, lethallan; especially about _this_ flower. Besides, it looks healthy to me.”

                The petals were vivid red, yes. But why were the other buds still closed? Mahariel took Merrill’s hands. “Why don’t we have a picnic? To celebrate your coming of age. Just the two of us.”

                The dark cast lifted from Merrill’s face. “Oh, I’d love that. Have you seen the grotto at night? You must. The stars are dazzling, lethallan.”

                Mahariel listened, grinning, as Merrill recounted when her team had spent the night among the murals of their ancestors. They swapped ideas: when will their picnic be, what should they bring, should they not invite their other friends. As afternoon came, both headed to their own activities; Merrill to her arcane studies, and Mahariel to her martial training.

               

Although they agreed to meet before dinner, Mahariel could not find Merrill. She had asked Elder Cygan, who claimed they had not come out of the Keeper’s aravel since after lunch. Being that case, Mahariel changed out of her sweat-drenched clothes then roamed the camp, helping with chores. Sareen needed extra hands in drying hides; Radhan wanted pointers on his aim; Junar asked help in re-erecting a tarp toppled by the wind.

                The sun was setting when Variel waved her into master Ilen’s workshop. Although the pavilion was opened on all four sides, the central area still hogged the heat of the sleeping furnace a few feet behind. Dried wood, traded ores, leathers, and numerous crafting tools stood in racks or lay on tables. A long narrow table at a corner held an assortment of tubs; six were closed and the other four looked newly washed. A burner blazed next to them. Variel gestured for Mahariel to sit by the table.

                “I apologize for bothering, lethallan. But I can’t seem to get the chemistry right. I was told you had a knack for dyes.”

                Mahariel could guess whom Variel heard that fact from. “I don’t really do exact chemistry,” she warned as she examined the labels noted on the containers.

                Variel assured her it mattered little, as long as she can get the dye white enough. The problem with white dyes was that they somehow lost its opacity which leaves a chalky grey coating. Nail lacquers and hair dyes reacted the same. Mahariel told Variel that she would do what she could, and that satisfied the craftsman.

                Measuring by the levels of solvents in their glass beakers instead of numbers, Mahariel had to show Variel exactly what she was doing so that the latter could replicate the method: when this reached that level, mix that; if the dye does not cling to the stick, add more pigment until it does.

                At the end of it all, Variel had a knot in her brow and four different pencils stuck in her hair. They had soaked leather scraps into the mixed dye, as well as blue cloth strips. More out of curiosity than necessity, Mahariel dipped the tips of her hair into the tub. As she was bent over the basin, combing the white pigments on a third of her hair, she caught a whiff of Variel’s flowery soap. Mahariel sat up, swivelled in her stool; Variel stood behind her, hand outstretched as if wanting to touch Mahariel’s neck.

                Vareil’s eyes buldged. “I am so sorry. I didn’t-” she licked her lips “-I mean, I’m happy for you.” Variel cracked her fingers in embarrassment. Mahariel was about to ask her to explain herself, but the craftsman was so flustered that she turned on her heels and marched out of the workshop.

                Open-mouthed, Mahariel stared at Variel’s back marching across the common grounds.  With a sigh, Mahariel bound her dyed hair with the remaining test cloths and set to cleaning her mess.

 

Before the bonfire was lit, Merrill reappeared at Mahariel’s aravel. The latter invited her in and waved off her apologies for not being able to meet with her earlier.

                “You’re just in time,” Mahariel said, peeling the wrappings from her hair. “What do you think?” She turned around, fanning her hair across her back. Silence. “That bad?”

                Merrill ran her hand halfway down Mahariel’s back. “Oh, well no. I don’t think so. I just don’t know what colour it is supposed to be.”

                “White?”

                “Um, grey.”

                “Like doves?”

                “Like charcoal ash.”

                “Oh.”

                Merrill patted her on the shoulder. “There, there. You can try ag-what is that?”

                Mahariel winced at the cold finger pressed to the side of her neck. She felt for whatever caught Merrill’s attention, but her fingertips only found smooth skin. Mahariel walked to the mirror as she gathered her hair over her right shoulder. Just above the juncture where neck curved into shoulder was a reddish mark, a bruise of some sort. Mahariel loomed over the mirror, squinting. A bite mark.

                Realization whacked Mahariel in the face and sent her tumbling into icy water. Variel saw. Worse, she knew exactly what it was.   _I’m happy for you._ In the mirror, Mahariel’s face was white as ancient halla bones. By the Creators, did she think that she and…

                Hands grabbed her shoulders and almost shook her head off her neck. “What is it, lethallan?” Merrill felt her forehead. “I don’t sense an illness.”

                If the line of thought Mahariel followed was correct, she will be sick soon. “Merrill,” she said, heart in her throat. “Has Fenarel and Tamlen returned from the hunt?”

                “I- yes, I believe I saw Fenarel taking rabbits to-”

                Mahariel ran for the door. She grabbed Merrill’s wrist, pulled her along the outer rings of the camp so they could sneak around the cooking grounds from behind.  As they scaled the low curving rock wall that prevented the smoke from rising too high, voices drifted to them: Ashalle laughing, Fenarel narrating. Mahariel peeked over the rim, and she swore rocks crumbled under her clenched fists.

                By the short edge of the long table piled with cutlery stood Variel and Tamlen. She was on her tiptoes –whispering-and he was leaning down to hear her words. Suddenly, Tamlen took a step back. He was red from neck to ears. He shook his head, hands coming up as if to push back whatever Variel had handed him.

                Mahariel pressed her face onto the rough outcrop, hoping Mythal would take pity on her and turn her into moss. Her eyes burned and she had to remind herself to blink.

                Merrill looked back and forth from the scene below to Mahariel. “Are you in trouble, lethallan?”

                Mahariel swallowed, then nodded. “I’m dead.”


	17. What Had Been, What Is, What Should Be

“Tell me why you're doing this again?”

                Mahariel resisted rolling her eyes, an arm bracing out to keep Tamlen from leaning in too close lest he nudged Junar’s arm. She’d rather not have a three-inch needle stab her finger; it was already dark enough under the eaves of the aravel without thick clouds hugging the camp. Not to mention Tamlen’s jiggling knee. Would it hurt his feelings if she asked him to leave before he knocks the table with all of Junar’s kit? As the latter dipped his needle into the silver ink again, she said, “Like I told you, since Merrill will get her vallaslin soon, I was curious how it would feel like.”

                Junar, now ready to thread another line of ink into Mahariel’s right ring finger, chuckled. “I’m not scaring you away yet? We aren’t even halfway through, you know?”

                Mahariel flinched as he pricked the thin skin between her fingers. Her little finger stuck out to the side, trembling in the effort to give Junar as much space as possible. The whole length of the finger getting tattooed grew colder than the rest, and it will not be long before it numbed. Mahariel pointed it out to Junar, who at once paused his work to massage her hand.

                Tamlen frowned, eyeing the mix of blood and ink on the cloth draped over Junar’s lap. “Just make him stop if it hurts that much.”

                “We can continue another time, Mahariel,” Junar added, squeezing the pads of her fingers one at a time.

                Mahariel raised an eyebrow at him, then at Tamlen. “I can handle it. I’m fine.”

                The two men shared a look, but then Junar shrugged and went back to work. Tamlen however turned a glare to the half-formed pattern across the back of Mahariel’s finger. “It won’t scare you away from taking the vallaslin?” he asked finally.

                Mahariel pressed her lips together. Tamlen had a point; she had shied from holding her dar’misaan once they tasted the flesh of a person. Even now, she could only confidently swing her swords against hay and wood. Who was to say that when her skin begins to flame and itch due to thousands of pinpricks Mahariel would not balk at the thought of needles digging into her face?

                A press of a hand on her knee made Mahariel look up. There was a crease between Tamlen’s brows now, eyelashes fluttering as his eyes searched her face. “Lethallan, I didn’t mean-I’m sorry.”

                Mahariel shook her head, drew a blank canvas over her face. Junar silently flipped her hand – palms up – so that he could complete the silver ring. Mahariel kept her eyes on the growing patterns, jaw clenching when the needle bit the tiniest of skin. More than thrice the needle crossed a nerve or a tendon, and Mahariel’s fingers twitched. There was no hiding that, and Tamlen seemed to tense at each flinch. He grew still however, as silent as Junar was concentrated.

                It was only when Junar shifted Mahariel’s hand this way and that under the lamp that Mahariel said, “I’ll take the vallaslin when I’m ready. But I _will_ take it.”

                Junar looked at her from under his lashes, a wide smile glinting like the silver ink that stained his hands. “Do you know what else you _can_ take?”

                Before Mahariel could even think of something equally playful to say, Tamlen slapped Junar’s shoulder, which earned him and indignant, “What?”

                Mahariel laughed as she wriggled her fingers. The silver halla horn wrapped around the base of her ring finger picked the lamplight and shimmered gold; it was reminiscent of the emblem painted on every shield of Sabrae clan’s warriors – a green profile of a halla on white background. Grinning, Mahariel clasped Junar’s hand and thanked him. And when Junar raised an eyebrow and asked, “Is that all?” Mahariel rose from her seat, leaned over the table, and pressed a kiss on his cheek. 

                His blood was quicker to respond than his mind, for he sat there wide eyed, mouth agape, face beet red for a whole ten seconds before he blinked and said, “Never in my life…” He kept chuckling at the credibility of the show of affection as he packed his kit. As he left to return the tools in the storage aravel - still smiling and touching his face - Mahariel turned to Tamlen to show off her new tattoo.

                The words nosedived down her gullet as her smile clashed with his scowl.

                “What?” she asked, perhaps a little too defensively.

                Tamlen rubbed his jaw once then let his arms hang limp to his sides. He crossed his arms a second later. His eyes leaped across Mahariel’s face: her eyes, left ear, right cheek, tip of her nose, her chin, her mouth, her covered neck. And suddenly it all made sense: the jittery knee, the endless questions, the hovering that bordered into invasion of personal space. By the Creators, Tamlen was trying to figure out who gave Mahariel the mark. That chaste kiss for Junar was proving to be too playful. Mahariel kept her face blank, hoping Tamlen did not catch the bob of her throat as she swallowed.

                “What was that for?” Tamlen decided to ask.

                “A token of appreciation,” Mahariel said with the lightest shrug she could muster.

                “So you give kisses to say thanks now?”

                The ball lodged in Mahariel’s throat apparently was not big enough to keep her irritation from spilling out of her mouth. What was it to him if she started giving kisses? They were rather enjoyable. She planted both hands on her hips, chin raised. “Only when I feel like it.”

                His mouth opened, closed, pursed. He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger before he shook his head. “Forget I asked,” he said, then walked off toward the training grounds.

                As Mahariel’s stomach dropped lower to her feet with each step Tamlen took, she finally admitted one thing to herself. Fenarel was right: she and Tamlen should have a good long talk.

 

This was the day Mahariel would finally talk to Tamlen heart to heart. At least that was her promise to herself yesterday, and ‘yesterday’ was quickly becoming ‘the other day’. Yet she had not made an effort to pull Tamlen aside. Only an orange crescent above the mountain spine remained of the sun as Mahariel, Merrill, Tamlen and Fenarel unrolled the rug behind the water basin in the grotto. There was enough light from the opening above for them to lay out their food without the help of firestones.

                Merill pulled her pack onto her lap and brought out bread and cheese, beaming. “I didn’t expect the Keeper to agree to let us spend the night here. How kind of her.”

                Next to her, tumbling a sack of apples onto a wooden tray, Fenarel chuckled. “This has little to do with kindness, Merrill.”

                Mahariel folded her legs under herself, sitting to Merrill’s left. From her pack, she brought out the strangest part of their menu: a bottle of wine. “This is most definitely a test.”

                “On how good we can handle our alcohol?” Merrill asked, which made Tamlen laugh.

                The sound skated around the walls, over the singing figures of their ancestors and across the writings uncovered by Merrill five days ago. As the echoes rose to the dish of sky, his eyes met Mahariel’s and he winked at her. Mahariel would have winked back, but Tamlen dipped his nose into his own pack before she could give more than a grin.

                “So what are we being tested at?” Merrill asked, tugging at Mahariel’s vambrace straps. “That we can survive the night on our own?”

                Mahariel broke the wax from the cork, taking a whiff of the fermented juice. She offered it to Merrill, who pursed her lips like she did. “That we can be proper adults without supervision.”

                “It is not as though any of us are overly fond of wine, being hunters and First and all that,” Fenarel said as he lined the cups in the centre of their small circle.

                “No,” Mahariel agreed, “but I will toast one to Merrill.” She filled their cups just enough for one swallow then rose to her knees. “To Merrill, whose devotion to the People will ensure the recovery our past and lead us to the future. There is no better First for clan Sabrae. May the Creators bless you, lethallan.”

                Merrill did not even wait to drink her wine before she tackled Mahariel to the ground.  Luckily for both of them, Mahariel had gulped her own drink quickly, leaving only the burning aftertaste to spill. However, she was bent over her folded legs, and the winter boots were starting to pinch her backside. But there was a certain heat in Merrill’s cheek, pressed to her own, that made her reluctant to move away from her embrace. So Mahariel wrapped her arms around her and patted her back, waiting for her tears to ebb. It was Merrill who pulled away, raising herself on her elbows to look in Mahariel’s eyes.

                “Thank you, lethallan,” she said and planted a kiss just at the corner of her mouth.

                Mahariel blinked. Once, twice. A third time. Then she laughed, cupped Merrill’s cheeks, and squeezed a little. “I meant what I said.”

                She nodded. As if the action reminded her of their position as well as the other people in the room, she clambered off Mahariel and held out a hand to help the latter sit up.

                Fenarel gestured at the fruits, salads, and bread in front of them. “I was the one who prepared the meal, you know. It was also I who convinced the Keeper. Yet I don’t get a hug?”

                At once Merrill’s arms were wrapped around his neck, her words of gratitude muffled on his shoulder. A pity she hadn’t knocked him on his back though; Mahariel would have loved to see that. Tamlen remained silent, which was what brought Mahariel’s attention to him.

                He was watching her. Although, by the hypnotic tapping of his forefinger on his cup Mahariel knew his mind was beyond the grotto. She brought him back with a light squeeze on his wrist. He blinked, eyes snapped to her hand on his.

                “What?” he said.

                His cup was empty, which meant he blanked for only a moment. Still…”Are you feeling ill?” Mahariel whispered.

                Tamlen shook his head once. He gently pulled his arm from Mahariel’s touch. “Just thinking.”

                “Tamlen’s turn!” Merrill said, snatching Mahariel’s attention once again as the mage skipped around her to kneel behind Tamlen. She hung her arms on his shoulders and planted a quick kiss on his right temple. Fenarel and Mahariel snorted at the wide-eyed expression of their childhood friend, who immediately frowned at them.

                “Nobody has ever done something like this for me before. Thank you, everyone,” Merrill said, still hugging Tamlen.

                The latter softened at her words; he leaned his head against Merrill’s and patted her cheek. “You deserve it, Merrill. Creators know you earned the title of First.”

                Merrill’s eyes were shining again, and before her tears could spill Mahariel pulled her back to her side and filled the mage’s plate.

                Their meal lasted longer than they thought, mainly because of the chain of stories they swapped with each other. Fenarel told some of his funniest memories – at the expense of Tamlen. Tamlen, in turn, told stories of Fenarel’s rowdy days; Mahariel added her own story of Fenarel chasing her with a worm, and the subsequent breaking of his finger. At one point Merrill had gone a little quiet as Fenarel and Tamlen bickered. Fearing they were accidentally ostracising her, Mahariel scooted closer and laid her head on her shoulder.

                “Enjoying yourself?” she asked.

                Merrill beamed down at her, tenderness turning her eyes into precious gems. “Like I never had before.”

                When the stars were ready for their nightly show, the four of them cleaned their meal, doused the firestones, and lay on the rug in an uneven cross. Their heads were pressed so close together that Mahariel felt their hair tangling whenever one of them moved. The moon shined enough that it casted a shadow along the rocky opening of the grotto, though the moon itself was not to be seen from their vantage point. But the opening allowed them a big clump of constellations, and it made them feel like they had managed to scoop the universe into a bowl.

                “Didn’t I tell you?” Merrill whispered.

                The tip of her nose seemed to glow under moonlight, and Mahariel wished she could see what it did to her eyes. As Mahariel turned her face upward again, she felt her hair pull to the right. She rolled her head and found Tamlen facing her. The moonlight leached the sky from in his eyes, leaving rings of silver, brighter and more precious than the one around Mahariel’s finger.

                “This is why I chose to sleep outdoors rather than in an aravel,” he said. His voice barely crossed the space between him and her. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

                “Incredibly so,” Mahariel answered, more a sigh than a sentence. But Tamlen heard, because he smiled before watching the stars once more.

 

The stars were at their best performance during the deep hours of night - almost morning really, when the sky was at its darkest. From the patch of glittering jewels directly over Mahariel, the stars did not intend to pack any time soon.

                A sigh drifted over Mahariel’s shoulder, then a slap of feet. “You’re not a very quiet hunter,” she said.

                Tamlen chuckled as he settled next to her, legs swaying meters in the air. He hugged his blanket tighter around his shoulders. “I should not have ignored you like that.”

                Mahariel turned to him, about to protest that she had no more ill feelings about what happened before she left for her training. But Tamlen held up a finger, pleading for her to listen.

                “We haven’t been the same, have we?” Tamlen continued. “If I had talked to you instead of brushing you away, perhaps we would be the same. Like you only left for a day, instead of a year.”

                Mahariel leaned on Tamlen a little. She wanted to assure him that they could go back the way it used to be. They were the best of friends, weren’t they? They cared for each other as they had always. But she would not lie to him. What exactly changed? When? How? Mahariel had no clue, but she noticed the hesitance in Tamlen’s hugs, the briefness of his laugh. She also noticed the stares when she was not looking, the increasing cuts on Tamlen’s lips as he chewed them in thought. How could she not, when the pull of his attention weighted her shoulders and squeezed her heart?

                “I said I was afraid for you.” At Mahariel’s nod, Tamlen continued, “I wasn’t just talking about your well-being. I…it was something you said before you left. That Namassa would change everything you see.”

                Tamlen faced her now, leaning so close that Mahariel saw the rapid pulse at the base of his neck. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be the Mahariel I grew up with and-” he sucked in a breath, and though Mahariel wanted him to keep talking she let him have his silence to order his thoughts. “And it happened: you changed.”

                “I’m still myself,” Mahariel said, which Tamlen replied with a curt laugh.

                “I always knew you were approaching by your footsteps; I can no longer hear them,” Tamlen admitted, looking at his twiddling thumbs. “I used to gauge your emotions from your eyebrows, you know.”

                “Let me guess,” Mahariel whispered. “They’re frozen in place now and can’t move.”

                Tamlen smiled at the joke, at least. “You were hard to read from the beginning, lethallan. But now you’re purposely hiding your thoughts.”

                Mahariel sat up tall, eyes on the stars. Was she truly so different than before? “What else?”

                “Sareen says you seem more approachable, which I completely disagree with.”

                “You talk about me behind my back?”

                “You were a popular topic when you left and after you arrived. You were too cooped up the first few days to notice the gossip.”

                “Unbelievable.”

                Tamlen chuckled. “Not really.”

                “You think I am unapproachable?”

                Tamlen shrugged. “I told you, I’m unsure how to read you.”

                “I do not see why, but fine. What else?”

                “Junar says you’ve become too serious.”

                Mahariel crossed her arms at that. “Does he want more tree sap in his trousers?”

                “Come one, lethallan,” Tamlen said, nudging her side. “You haven’t pranked anyone recently. We don’t even see you around camp as much.”

                Now Mahariel bristled. “You speak as though I have not snuck out of camp multiple times before. You were with me more often than not.”

                “Yes, I used to.”

                The fire sputtered inside Mahariel. He _used_ to. By the Creators, did she make Tamlen feel ignored? She placed a hand on his shoulder meaning to apologise, but Tamlen had more to say.

                “Then there is that too.”

                “What?”

                Tamlen looked up, meeting her eyes. “Why are you suddenly so touchy with everyone?”

                Mahariel blinked. “Touchy?”

                “Touchy,” he repeated like it was obvious. “Holding hands with Junar, not to mention that kiss. And now Merrill.”

                “Tamlen,” Mahariel sighed, “I doubt Junar could tattoo my hand without holding my hand. And I had no idea Merrill would kiss me.”

                “Why did you kiss Junar, then?”

                “Because-” Mahariel frowned, realization dawning. She watched Tamlen scowling down at her like his next breath would only come after her answer. He had never brought up what Variel must have told him, and perhaps Mahariel should force it out now. “What is this truly about, Tamlen?”

                “Forget-”

                Mahariel grabbed his arm before he could stand. “You are not avoiding this one.”

                He held her gaze for a breath. Two, three. Then he settled back beside her. “Is Junar courting you?”

                Mahariel clamped down the urge to jump and yell “I knew it!” Instead, she opted for a direct, “No.”

                Tamlen frowned. “Merrill?”

                “She is a sister to me.”

                Tamlen went back to twiddling his thumbs, and Mahariel almost reached out to calm them. Then he asked, “Are you coupling with Junar then?”

                Mahariel laughed, sealed her mouth with both hands to avoid waking Fenarel and Merrill. Tamlen clicked his tongue. “Sorry, Tamlen. I know it was a serious question, but Creators, no.”

                “With who, then?”

                As her mirth faded, Mahariel shook her head. “Oh, no. You do not get to ask that question.”

                His nose scrunched in affront. “Why not?”

                “Because I don’t ask about your…activities.”

                He rolled his eyes, but otherwise remained silent. Fenarel’s breathing echoed behind them, and Mahariel could see his face in her mind – open-mouthed, whites of his eyes peeking underneath dark lashes.

                “You can ask now, and I will tell you,” Tamlen blurted.

                Mahariel sighed. She already saw too much and would rather leave the rest in the dark. “That is not how it works.”

                Tamlen’s head dropped to his hands. Then he scratched at his head until his hair stood in clumps. “Alright. I understand. Just-” he sat up, took her hands in his and looked her in the eye “-take care of yourself.”

                “I always do.” Mahariel squeezed his hands. “Now, I have a question. What makes you think I have lain with anyone?”

                Tamlen chewed on his bottom lip. His eyes darted to their hanging feet, then he said, “Variel noticed a mark. On your neck. It was obvious what it was.”

                “What made her tell _you_?”

                One of his fingers twitched against her knuckle and for a moment Mahariel thought he would pull away. But he tightened his grip even as his ears turned red. “She thought you and I…well, she wanted to congratulate me.”

                There was a beehive on fire in Mahariel’s throat and she tried to dislodge it by coughing. Hard. It was she who ended up unlinking their hands as she thumped her chest. She could see it clearly in her mind: Variel whispering, Tamlen taken aback, shaking his head.

                “I’m sorry,” Tamlen began, rubbing her back. “I should not have said anything; I knew it would make you uncomfortable.”

                Mahariel shook her head. There was something she must ask - once her coughing bouts stopped. “Why would she think that?”

                Tamlen froze. It was only until Mahariel looked at him that he answered. “I kept talking about you. When you were in the Wilds. I was worried, and well, I talked to Fenarel and Merrill, Ashalle too. They would get as nervous as I was. But Variel is a good listener; she wasn’t affected by my worrying. But eventually-”

                Mahariel barred a finger across his lips to stop him from rambling. He was getting louder for one; and two, a familiar bubbling began to rise from Mahariel’s stomach and she did not want to froth because of it. “I think I understand.” Perhaps too well. Or not at all. Most likely overthinking his words.

                Tamlen was breathing hard. “It is not my business unless you make it so. But I swear to the Dread Wolf I can't shake Variel’s words out of my mind no matter what I did.”

                Mahariel should have kept her mouth shut after that, but she could not help but ask, “And why is that?”

                Tamlen huffed, hand running through his hair. “I…I knew you since you were a baby, Mahariel. And I might be overprotective of you. I’m also shocked. Flabbergasted, in fact.” He held her shoulders at arm’s length, taking a good look at her. “I had not realized how much you’ve grown.”

                And just like that, the bubbles in Mahariel’s stomach burst one by one. But she was ready for the sudden hollowness - expected it. And so she was able to genuinely smile. “Even after all that, I am still the Mahariel you know.”

                Tamlen wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her head against his chest. “I’m starting to realise that.”

                Mahariel closed her eyes took a deep breath. At that moment, it felt like as it were before. Like as it should be.


	18. Good Things Come To An End

Taking a walk through the watery snow was not what Mahariel had in mind as she visited Lukas on the last day of Haring. Unfortunately, the mage needed to gather a number of materials for his arcane studies. And with a long kiss for Mahariel, he managed to persuade her to trek the mountains with him. Though they agreed to slow their pace - partially due to the slippery footing, mostly to lengthen their time together – Mahariel would not be surprised to find a number of toes lost to frostbite.

                The pair ducked into a shallow cave; the wind hummed past the entrance like an invisible gate, seemingly in time with the glow of moss she had only seen deep into the Frostback Basin. As Lukas bent on his haunches to scrape a mat of moss from a rock, Mahariel drummed her fingers on the hilt of her blades. Only the tips of the mountains held snow now, soon the land would grow green and the Dalish would roam them again.

                “What is it you are making, anyway?” Mahariel asked in between bouts of wind.

                Lukas’ knife continued its _shik shik shik_ and the man merely offered a half-smile – left corner of his lips curling.

                Mahariel huffed, leaned a shoulder on the wall. “If you’re not going to talk to me at all, then why bring me?”

                This time Lukas laughed. A squeak echoed from the dark corner of the cave, which made the mage smile wider. “I’m making something for you. Do not ask.”

                Mahariel crouched next to him, chin rested on her drawn up knees. “What is it?”

                “A surprise, Mahariel, please.”

                Again with that brilliant mischief in his eyes. In addition to his height, reverberating voice, and his rather sharp canines, Mahariel could see why Tamlen and Ashalle and all of her clan would take a look at Lukas and immediately draw their bows. As Lukas ripped off the last bit of moss with a “ha ha!” an image flashed in Mahariel’s mind: herself, arms wide, back against Lukas, pleading her kin to lower their bows.

                She blinked, turned her eyes to the white spine of the Frostback Mountains. “I will miss you, Lukas.”

                Silence. Then a shuffle. Then an arm snaked around Mahariel’s waist, lips pressed under her ear. “Let’s not think about that; we have time yet.”

                Eyes closed, Mahariel leaned her head on Lukas’ shoulder. “Any suggestions on how to spend it?” She felt his laugh crawl up her back, and she sighed.

                “First-” he lifted her chin and kissed her. “Second, I suggest we head back to my study.”

                Oh, how Mahariel would miss him. She accepted the hand he offered, and as she got to her feet, she wove her fingers between his.

 

They never got to the hut.

                A shimmer at the edge of the riverbank rooted Mahariel on her tracks. Was it merely a trick of the light? Right arm rising for her bow strapped to her back, she retreated closer to where Lukas had waded into the water for a weed; behind her, the splashes stopped. Mahariel took a fifth step. Lukas yelled.

                A flash from the right. Mahariel spun, raising her bow, released her arrow at empty air. It lodged there, mid-air, blood dripping down its shaft. Had Mahariel somehow fallen asleep? Did she unknowingly wake up in the Beyond?

                Gravel crunched behind her, and Mahariel sidestepped, released her second arrow. She drew her blade – not waiting for the arrow succeed or fail – and parried down purely on instinct. The shock of hitting metal jolted her shoulder. Movement to the right – a warping of the stones, just beneath the gap between Mahariel’s arm and side- forced her to drop her bow and reach for her other sword.  Just as her left hand grabbed the hilt, a blade slashed across the back of her right knee. Mahariel dropped to the ground, knee-guards grinding the pebbles, gasps mute under the alarms blaring in her ears. _Get up! Get your distance!_

                Then her ears popped. Every hair on Mahariel’s body stood on end. Behind her, Lukas called her name. She threw herself to the ground, pulling her knees to her chest, arms sheltering her head. Moisture drained from the air, and it grew brittle until the slightest breath threatened to spark it into flames. Indeed, the air ignited. Purple lights arced and bolted in a circle, and though Mahariel could not see, she knew in the middle of the wild energy was Lukas; staff raised, its jewel and his hand pulsing with light. Cracks ran in front of Mahariel, rocks burst from the arcane lightning, followed by a cry.

                Then silence.

                A hand brushed down Mahariel’s arm, gently coaxed her to her back, out of the ball she made of herself. “Can you move?” Lukas whispered.

                Mahariel blinked water from her eyes, swallowed dust and iron. Purple stained the sky, as though the Beyond would not let go of their world. She rose to her elbows, flinched and groaned as she jostled her injured leg. Lukas’ eyes snapped to the wound. He tore the hem of his undershirt, wrapped the fabric around her knee to staunch the bleeding. His hand hovered over the darkening cloth, the purple glow from his fingers changing to blue; but then a grumble ahead of them made him pause. His head rose, fist clenched. Lukas twirled his staff over his head then stabbed into the ground. A ring of dust exploded from beneath his feet, expanding six feet before it rose over their heads, glittering like a glass dome.

                “Stay close,” Lukas said as he moved in front of Mahariel. Not that she had any intentions otherwise.

                Mahariel dragged her eyes over to the twitching figure ahead of them. His or her arms were covered in red angular marks whose patterns were reminiscent of the vallaslin in their intricacy. As the person rose on all fours, one hand clutching their abdomen, the marks trickled to the ground. Mahariel realised then what she was seeing: flesh, blistered and bloody from Lukas’ spell. Farther upriver was another figure, this one unmoving; right arm partially submerged in the water, an arrow sticking from the shoulder.

                “Show yourselves!” Birds took to the air as Lukas’ voice shook the afternoon.

                As Mahariel staggered to her feet, forcing her weight on her left leg, three hulking men emerged from behind a jutting ledge of the hill to their left. Braced on their shoulders were double-blade axes longer than Mahariel was tall; although they were too far for a clear view of anything aside from their shaved heads and glinting weapons at their belts, Mahariel felt their eyes on her. Each man jumped, cracking thin layers of ice or splashing water as they landed.

                “They won’t get past the barrier,” Lukas whispered. “I promise.”

                Mahariel let out her breath; it was then that she noticed the little crescents her nails had dug into his leather arm brace.

                Next to the figure Mahariel had shot two ripples hazed the rocks and water, as though seen through the heat of campfire. It pulled at the light, warping and twisting and unveiling – a leg, a sword, a pelt. With a snap, the haze broke revealing two armed men. Mahariel blinked twice as they scooped the figure she had shot in the shoulder. “Mages?”

                Lukas’ back was knotted, shoulders bunched. He shook his head once, eyes on the biggest man who now held his axe to his side as he approached them. Lukas pushed Mahariel behind him again, completely blocking her view of the newcomers.

                The man, clearly the group’s leader, rumbled something Mahariel did not quite understand. Lukas said something back, followed by the name of his Thane and Hold. The group was Avaar, then; a different hold from the look of their pelts and lack of hair. A grunt came from the other man. Then footsteps. Lukas pivoted left, and Mahariel realised the man was circling them, trying to get a look at her.

                “What business do you have so far beyond your territory?” Lukas asked, the tension in his jaw clipping his words.

                “Confirmation,” the unknown Avaar said. “Our scouts reported landships camped on your doorstep.”

                Landships. Aravels.

                Mahariel squeezed Lukas’ arm. He turned his face slightly to her, and though he had a frown on his brow, he patted her hand calmly.

                Turning back to the Avaar, Lukas said, “The Dalish are temporarily under our protection, as per the terms of our trade.”

                The Avaar grunted at the hidden threat in the words. “Elves: raiders and bandits.”

                He was laughing, Mahariel realised, a concoction of amusement and disdain. The man raised his axe, pointed it toward the two women Mahariel had fought. One of the men had taken out the arrow from the shoulder of the unconscious woman, while another bandaged the arm of the woman who had stabbed Mahariel.

                “Does your protection extend to the elf who drew blood from my kin?” There was enough indignation in the Avaar’s voice to grab attention to his case; but the energy in his voice, in the way he swung his weapon, hinted the true motive of his plea.

                “I would not have,” Mahariel said simply as she stepped into view. “You attacked, I defended.”

                At this, the Avaar’s eyes dipped toward Mahariel’s blood-soaked leg. She raised her chin, daring him to comment on her weak guard, goading him to admit she was on defence.

                He didn’t. He sneered, looked at the two men flanking him and at the other four upriver.

                Lukas cleared his throat, offered a small smile. “If you wish, I can arrange an audience with the Thane.”

                The Avaar huffed. “I will talk to her myself.”

                And just like that, he swung his axe on his shoulder and turned. The two men lingered, eyeing Mahariel. No, not her; her ears. Then they lumbered away, picked up the woman with the burnt arms.

                Mahariel and Lukas watched until the backs of the group were no longer distinguishable from the foliage. It was only when Lukas had dispersed the barrier that Mahariel unlocked her knee. Had Lukas not been so close, she would have crashed to the ground again. As it were, he caught her by the arms. Instead of helping her to the ground, he crouched, braced a shoulder against Mahariel’s stomach and wrapped an arm around her thighs.

                Before she understood why Lukas was bent over, why she was tipping forward, her feet were off the ground, hands balling around Lukas’ coat to balance herself on his shoulder.

                “This will not be pleasant,” Lukas warned, and Mahariel felt him shift his center lower. “Close your eyes.”

                She shook her head. Her body tingled from remnants of magic, the back of her knee burned and throbbed against the makeshift bandage; Mahariel would not dare to lower her guard again. Lukas hefted his staff with his left hand, its jewel now pulsing blue as frost began to bead the crystal. Magic crawled up Mahariel’s limbs, raising the fine hair on her nape. Lukas’ weight shifted forward, staff levelled with the ground, then he leapt into the river. Or at least Mahariel thought he did. They plunged into a torrent of ice, water, and wind. Cold specks slapped Mahariel’s cheeks, forcing her eyes close. Droplets entered her mouth and nose, and no matter how hard she pressed her arms to her face to make room for breathing, she found herself gasping and coughing. Thankfully, Lukas’ hold on her was firm, and he did not seem to be experiencing any discomfort at all.

                At one point, Mahariel thought she heard his voice, assuring her that it will be over soon. There were other whispers too, like an afterimage of a long gone lightning. She heard her name mingled in those humming. A lullaby. She knew that tune, somehow.

                “Mahariel?” This was from Lukas, louder and crisper now. “We’re almost there.”

                There? Where?

                She was about to ask the question when a flash of green flew by. The grove? And…someone.

                A burst of light slammed into Lukas. Or he slammed into it. Mahariel flinched as though a fish ripped out of the water. They stood amid the ancient pines that held up mounds of snow and protected a ring of green grass from winter. With a huff, Lukas lowered Mahariel under the very tree he had lounged against so many times before – as he had on the day they met.

                His hands cupped her face, thumb running over her lower lip, and Mahariel leaned into the warmth.

                “You’ve lost too much blood,” he said.

                The world wasn’t spinning, and Mahariel could still feel her toes; she doubted it was as terrible as Lukas made it seem. Even so, she held still as Lukas unwrapped her wound and pressed his palms to the sides of her knee. As his hands trickled magic into her leg, his eyes closed. There was thinness in the lids of his eyes – reddish and blue-veined - that was not there before. His lips were pale and cracked, cheeks devoid of colour. What he did, the magic that allowed him to somehow cheat distance to reach the grove in seconds, had drained him. Yet here he was, spending more of his mana on her.

                Mahariel took his hands, pulled them away from her wound. His eyes opened, mouth forming a protest. Mahariel grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him close, and kissed his worry away. As much as she could, anyway. He was still frowning as they parted.

                “Stitches will do,” Mahariel said.

                “Yes,” Lukas said. “Or I could close the wound with magic right away.”

                “You can barely keep your eyes open.” Mahariel brushed her finger under one of his eyes. “Besides, you have other concerns to think about.”

                Lukas’ throat bobbed as his eyes dropped to the bloodied fabric on the ground. Wordlessly, he tore another strip of his shirt and wrapped her wound. Mahariel watched his fingers make a knot, how his small finger bent outward a little, how his knuckles whitened due to the dry cold.

                Finally, his hand stopped and went limp on Mahariel’s lap. “The Thane will want to hear from me.”

                “Will the Hold stand with us? Will they take the word of an elf over their cousins?”

                Lukas sighed.

                Mahariel nodded, clasped his hands in hers. “I must talk to the Keeper as well.”

                He wanted to say something; Mahariel could see it in the set of his jaw, the liquidness of his eyes. But he kept silent, took her under the arms and helped her to her feet. “I’ll take you to the bridge.”

                Mahariel stepped closer. “Lukas-”

                Lukas jumped back as though burned by her hands on his arms, face unreadable. Mahariel was about to follow him, ask what was wrong, when she noticed he was looking over her shoulder. Mahariel whirled around, drawing her sword.

                At the end of her blade was Tamlen, bow aimed just over her shoulder.

                “ _Lethallan_ ,” Tamlen said. He was not looking at her.

                Mahariel swallowed, licked her dry lips. She shifted her weight to the left, between the arrow and Lukas. “He is not a threat, Tamlen,” she said first in elvhen, then in Common.

                “Not a threat? He is human.” Tamlen’s brow drew down. Still in elvhen, he said, “Did he cause that?”

                His eyes flicked to her for the first time. There was no doubt that he only saw the torn leggings, the bandage, the blood. Mahariel sheathed her sword then brought her hands up.

                “Tamlen, I will tell you what happened. Please, lower your bow.”

                His eyes darted between her and Lukas, who had not moved an inch nor made a sound. His gaze stayed on Mahariel after a while, livid and cold. With a curse, he disarmed and shoved his arrow back into his quiver. “Leave, _shemlen_.”

                Lukas slowly picked up his staff, eyes never leaving Tamlen. As he straightened, he chanced one last look at Mahariel and gave her a small smile.

                Mahariel’s eyes stung. Was this the last time she would ever see him? It was not even a proper good-bye. His name slipped past her lips, and the sound seemed to spark something in him.

                Smile growing, Lukas stepped forward and pressed his lips to Mahariel’s temple. “You will not be forgotten, beautiful Mahariel.”

                And then he was withdrawing, turning, walking away. The trees closed around his figure, eager to erase him from memory.


	19. Torn Bounderies

The tents were torn down that same afternoon, mere hours after Mahariel had told the Keeper about the encounter with the other avaar tribe. Runners were sent to call back those who left for the hunt, while men and women collapsed tables and chairs or packed jars of food back into aravels. Elders folded the airing laundry, dry or not. Children watched from the central hearth, two or three with confusion in their eyes; but most lounged on the grass, keeping out of the way of the bustle and waiting for a chance to help. Mahariel herself gathered the whittled wood meant for arrow shafts, rolled them in cloth, and carried the bunch inside master Ilen’s aravel. Tamlen looked up from his work of unstringing bows as she entered. His eyes dipped once to Mahariel’s leggings, now shorn above the knees.

            “You’re healed” he said, the first words he’d spoken to her since finding her with Lukas.

            Mahariel stacked her pile into one of the crates, jotted the number of pieces she added. Then she stood there, fingers tapping her thigh. Where were the words she wanted to hurl at Tamlen’s back as they returned to camp? Should she tell Tamlen he was being too harsh, knowing it will renew his anger? Should she make her clan understand that Lukas meant no harm, even though by the morning the avaar will be long out of sight? She had promised an explanation to Tamlen, but could she admit the resentment she felt for seeing him in that grove?

            Finally, Mahariel said, “Merrill’s work,” turning her right leg to show the faint pink line on the back of her knee. She stood there a moment, more words wanting to unravel from her mouth but her mind could not untangle her thoughts fast enough. In the end, they were cut short by Tamlen’s quiet question.

            “Was it him?” His eyes were back on the bow in his hands, but he was unmoving.

            Taking a deep breath, Mahariel leaned a hip against the lone workbench, arms crossed. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

            Tamlen’s head snapped up. “Of course it does. You’ve gone to who knows where before the sun is out, and we only see you by late afternoon. Now we learn you were alone with a shemlen all that time. What if the shem- we wouldn’t even know where to look for you.”

            “You wouldn’t need to. Lukas would not harm me or anyone in the clan; he would not be my friend otherwise.”

            Tamlen scoffed. “Friend. Is that all he is?”

            Mahariel felt her face burn. Then her anger came; why should she be embarrassed? She enjoyed her time with Lukas, and she did not regret any second of it. Not even Tamlen can make her.

            “No,” Mahariel said, chin up. “He is not _only_ a friend. What of it?”

            It took three seconds for Tamlen to realise his mouth was agape, and it took a while longer for him to say, “He’s a shemlen. They have no sympathy for our people; even as we speak, the avvar are likely deciding how best to rid us from their land, no matter what your _friend_ says.”

            Mahariel remembered the look on Lukas’ face, his silence, when she asked how his Hold would react, and she knew Tamlen was right. “Lukas is not the Hold.”

            Tamlen groaned, crossed the room in two strides, and grabbed Mahariel by the shoulders. “How can you trust him so easily? He can’t be good for you, lethallan.”

            Mahariel slapped his hands away. “Why? Because he is human? I’ve been meeting him for over a month now, and I always come back unscathed”-she held up a hand to stop Tamlen from speaking- “today was not his fault. Besides, how would you know if he is good for me or not? You didn’t bother to know him.”

            “Fine.” Tamlen stepped back, ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe I don’t. But I know that each time Ashalle finds your cot empty, she comes to me. And every time, I’d say I haven’t seen you all day yet reassure her you were just somewhere nearby even though you could be face-down in a river already. All I know is the whole camp had started to notice when you come back red-faced and bubbly like an ill-kept secret. But who cares about the rumours. You’re not face-down in a river.”

            Mahariel's eyes were wide, she tried to swallow past the dryness of her throat.

            “Maybe I am worrying too much,” Tamlen continued. “Where we wandered to in the past, and the troubles we fell into, I have grounds to be worried. I guess I just feel it more since I’m not there with you.”

            “That has nothing-” Mahariel caught her breath, brows rising. She rolled Tamlen’s words in her mind again, picked them apart to make sure she understood their true meaning. Mahariel stood straighter, arms still folded across her chest. In a calmer voice, she said, “Lukas is not the issue.”

            “No? Isn’t Lukas the reason for all the sneaking and secrecy?”

            Mahariel shook her head. “Why isn’t he good for me, Tamlen? Is being ‘red-faced and bubbly’ all that bad?”

            “It’s bad that it was caused by shemlen hands.” Now it was Tamlen’s turn to flush, eyes wide at what he blurted. He ran a hand down his face, clamped his mouth as he began to pace.

            “And whose hands would be better?” Mahariel pressed. “Junar? Merrill?”

            He halted in his tracks, whirled around to give her a frown. “That is not what I meant.”

            Feeling bolder at his flustered state Mahariel stepped forward, her chest almost touching his. “What else could you have meant? You hate the thought of me being with Lukas. Would any elf be better? Or do you prefer one from our clan?”

            She was so close to him now that she saw the bob of his throat as he swallowed and the jumpy pulse at the base of his neck. “If you have someone in mind, name him.”

            Tamlen glared down at her, nose flaring as he took large breaths. Mahariel shifted to her right, putting her back to the door and effectively blocking Tamlen’s way out. There was no way she would repeat the same mistake of letting their fight simmer on its own.

            Of course, Tamlen noticed the movement, raised an eyebrow in response. “I only meant that you deserve someone trustworthy.”

            The honesty of his admission tempted Mahariel to ease back, but that was not the answer she hunted. “No one is ever good enough for your little sister, is there?”

            His mouth opened, then closed. He blinked a number of times, eyes seeking the tools and dried wood littering the room as if he suddenly didn’t know where he was. For a second Mahariel worried that she had pushed too hard, that she finally made Tamlen truly upset with her. Then his eyes found her again. Like a slap, Mahariel understood the look on his face: rejection. She had dug her own grave without even knowing; now she was neck deep and desperate to claw her way out. But she didn’t. She balled her fists, locked her knees, and returned Tamlen’s stare.

            He shook his head, took a step back. “I am not your brother.”

            “What?”

            Head cocked, Tamlen repeated with a little chuckle, “You’re not my little sister. And I’m not your brother.”

            He said it so matter-of-factly that Mahariel was unsure to feel indignation or approval, or anything for that matter. But she was certain her clothes suddenly felt ill-fitting, like they belonged to someone else.

            “What am I to you, then?” she asked despite dreading the possible answer.

            Tamlen looked her up and down, then sighed. He sank back on his stool; hands gathered the next bow to be unstrung. “You’re my friend.”

            Mahariel scoffed. “A friend.”

            His head rose and locked eyes with her. On his lips was a familiar soft smile, tainted with a touch of nostalgia. “My dearest one.”

            Feeling the tears prick at her eyes, Mahariel turned and made for the door. She paused at the threshold, looked over her shoulder, and asked one last question. “Is that all I am?”

            Before Tamlen could answer, she threw herself into the simple commotion of breaking camp.


	20. The Walk North

Bells brought Mahariel back underneath her wool blanket, the places she visited in the beyond already drained away. An orange line crested the point of her nose and sloped down her cheek as the muted campfire slipped past the tent flaps. Aside from Sareen’s light snores beside her and the whistle of wind through trees, the night was quiet. Had the chiming bells been a part of her dream? She closed her eyes, willing her mind to let go of the sound.

                _Clink._

                Mahariel sat, prepared to throw her blanket aside and search for whatever made the sound. Fully awake, she realised it sounded less like bells but more like glass tapped together; Or an icicle breaking off a tree branch. Frowning, Mahariel crawled out of the tent. Chandan looked up from his post at the edge of the light, bow and arrow in hand. He nodded his chin toward the trail the clan had followed; Mahariel shook Sareen awake, shushing her moans of complaints.

                “Movement,” Mahariel whispered as she strapped her armour. The other hunter reached for her weapons by her feet, despite the grogginess.

                When Mahariel stepped out again, Chandan was perched on a branch six feet in the air. He waved Mahariel over and pointed down the mountain pass. “Something comes.”

                “Some _thing_?”

                He nodded, eyes not leaving their mark. “It looks like a deer, but-” he stared at Mahariel and shrugged “-it’s glowing.”

                The rasp of metal against leather made Mahariel turn. Sareen twirled her daggers, fire dancing in her eyes. “Whatever it is, we can’t let it near the clan.”

                Mahariel gazed in the direction Chandan pointed – the direction of the avvar hold. With a nod she gestured for Sareen to follow and ordered Chandan to look out. Thankfully, clouds did not crowd the sky, allowing the starlight to guide their way back to the trail they had just hiked that afternoon.

                “Avvar, you think?” Sareen asked as their campfire disappeared behind outcrops.

                It was unlikely; the clan was a day north from the hold after all. A spirit that crossed the veil was Mahariel’s guess, though she hesitated to say it. An image of a wisp popped into her mind – along with someone she associated it with. She was quick to blink it away. “Just keep to the shadows.”

                No more than ten paces did Mahariel speak when they finally spotted the glowing figure. The two hunters pressed their backs against old trees, listening to the approaching stranger. As it came closer the creases on Sareen’s brow grew deeper and darker, the sweat on her brow shone bluer. They could hear it now: _cluck cluck_ of hooves and-

                _Clink._

                Mahariel sucked in a breath. She held up three fingers to Sareen, who nodded. As the last finger went down, both hunters bolted from tree to tree, ducking behind bushes and crawling on their bellies until they were past the glaring halo of light and finally saw the source of it. It was a deer, as Chandan said. A white stag with great twisting horns that could rival their largest halla’s. The more Mahariel squinted at it the more transparent it became, crystalline. The clinking came again as the animal raised it snout to smell the air, and as its clear eyes landed on their hiding place, Mahariel realised what it truly was. A stag made of ice. Mahariel shivered as though touched by the animal.

                “That' not…that’s magic,” Sareen said like it was a question.

                Mahariel nodded. “I know this magic.”

                Before Sareen could say anything else Mahariel rose from her spot. The stag immediately clomped its way to her. A bow twang next to her, and only Mahariel’s hand on Sareen’s wrist stopped the arrow’s flight. The magically created animal marched closer, silent and regal, and as it stopped face to face with Mahariel a pouch tied to the base of its horn became visible. She did not hesitate to untie it and spill its contents onto her palm. A small vial – an inch long and as thick as Mahariel’s little finger – sealed an opaque liquid which shone blue from the light of the stag.  Next to it was a square of folded paper with her name written on it.

                “What is it, lathallan?” Sareen asked, voice cracking like the ice of the stag’s hooves.

                “A message for me,” Mahariel said, tucking the vial and the letter into her pocket. She ran a hand down the stag’s snout. Its eyes closed as it nudge closer. Mahariel pressed her forehead on it’s cold one and whispered, “Thank you, and goodbye.”

                The stag reared on its hind legs, making Sareen jump back. As its front hooves hit the ground it shattered into thousands of glittering shards, leaving only darkness and the echoes of chiming bells.

 

Later that night, after Mahariel had sent her fellow hunters to sleep, she flattened the paper against her knee and murmured its words to herself.

                _I had meant it to be your birthday present. I suppose it could still be that but I feel it is more a parting gift now, something to remind you of me. Until we meet again, my friend._

                Along with the note was a recipe for a dye, which made less sense than the animated ice stag. The ingredients listed on the note were familiar however- those were the materials she and Lukas had gathered on their last day together. _For your hair_ , the instructions read. Mahariel gathered her braid in her hand, flicking a finger over the grey tips. Then she started laughing – quiet and shaky and wet.

 

* * *

 

Sunlight greeted the end of the first week of Wintermarch, along with the smooth road that lead travellers and merchants alike to the gates of Orzammar. _Gherlen’s Pass_ , the Keeper had announced as the clan camped by the base of the hill. _Gherlen’s Pass?_ Namassa had shouted once she knew the Keeper planned on trading with the dwarven merchants.

                Mahariel tightened the knot of her belt, eyes on the ironbark hilt peeking over Fenarel’s right shoulder as they waited for master Ilen and Variel to prepare their goods. She did not fully understand Keeper Marethari’s reasoning as to why she would send her - a hunter who had two less-than-ideal encounters with shemlen – to accompany the trading party. From her history, it would not surprise her if the durgen’len took offense with her. She would not, however, question the decision if it meant time away from camp. From Tamlen, really.

                He and Mahariel had not hunted together since leaving the Frostback Basin, though they talked and ate together as they did before. For all their efforts, their conversations were stilted, painfully so. Many glances and raised eyebrows were shared by Merrill and Fenarel during meals, and Mahariel caught them all. Tamlen did too, no doubt. The air felt combustible to Mahariel, which made the prospect of visiting the dwarven market even more appealing.

                To her right, Fenarel raised his hand in a wave; Mahariel’s blood ran cold and hot at the same time as Tamlen jogged his way from the aravels.

                “Why are you calling him over?” she whispered to Fenarel.

                He shrugged; an innocent smile on his face. “He was already on his way.”

                Mahariel kept her face neutral despite her heart pounding up her throat. “He’ll want to come.”

                Fenarel glanced down at her. He was silent as he looked her head to toe. Then he made an agreeable grunt. With a sigh, Mahariel finally looked at Tamlen as he huffed to a stop in front of them.

                “I don’t understand it,” he said with a great big shake of his head, which needed a haircut. “If we’re trading with Orzammar anyway, we could have come here sooner.”

                Mahariel and Fenarel shared a look.

                “Well,” Fenarel began to say, dragging the vowel as if waiting for Tamlen to stop him from answering. He didn’t.

                “You know why,” Mahariel said. “Snow, mountain, danger.”

                Tamlen stared at her now, a slight frown on his brow. “We should have headed back north after the arlathven then.”

                 “Maybe. But we didn’t.” She left the boys to help master Ilen with whatever he might need help in. The faster they packed, the sooner they left.

 

Gathered around the blacksmith’s booth in the middle of the bustling cloaked and hooded merchants, four Dalish elves did not seem as conspicuous as Mahariel first thought. For one, there were shemlen selling and buying wares among the dwarves; for anyone who looked their way, the heavily covered Dalish could be few humans among others. Until their faces were seen, that is. Fortunately, the attention was on business. As master Ilen bartered for dwarf-mined ore, Mahariel watched the milling crowd. The energy in the courtyard raised the hackles on the back of her neck. Was it the hungry shouts of hawkers calling people to their tents? Was it the movement of hundreds of bodies pressed tightly together? Or was it the giant perfectly cut hole in the mountain, the opened gates of the dwarven kingdom guarded by fully armed squad of warriors?

                Mahariel nudged Fenarel in the arm, gestured at the thick iron doors. “I don’t see any bolts or locks.”

                Shielding his eyes with a hand, Fenarel scanned the surface of the dwarven gate. An intricate blocky relief was clearly embossed on both sides, but there was nothing deep enough to suggest a key hole, or anything protruding that seemed to be handles or knobs.

                “I heard the mechanism is all inside,” a soft voice said beside her. “That’s how it usually is with anything dwarf-made.”

               Mahariel’s eyes widened as they landed on small woman next to her; Fair hair, straight nose, big yellow-green eyes, but a sharp face free of valasllin. The latter’s long thin fingers flew to her mouth as she in turn took in Mahariel’s features. A small smile began at the corners of her lips, shaky yet pleased. Then her eyes flicked over Mahariel’s shoulder, and she froze.

                Fenarel step closer, and as he did the young elf in front of her jumped three steps back. She knocked right into a woman behind her; bottles crashed on stone, ale seeped into the hem of cloaks and dresses. A shriek silenced the rumble of the crowd. The elf gasped, fingers trembling as she turned, step-by-step, toward the red-faced shemlen soaked with ale.

                The human’s arm swept up in an arc, fingers glinting as jeweled rings caught sunlight. Mahariel’s hand was already on her hilt, taut and eager to draw. But as her mind registered what she was seeing in front of her, remembered where she was, she instead pulled the elf back and stepped in her place. She caught the slap perfectly. So perfectly that the hood of her cloak flew off her head, inviting the wind to bite at her stinging cheek.

                The woman, of course, stared at her ears. “Knife-ear,” she spat. She raised her left hand this time, just as bejeweled.

                Shuffling from behind, a whispered curse, a gasp. Clinking chainmail.

                The hand came down, but Mahariel was more prepared. Just before the palm connected with her cheek, she turned her head ever so slightly – left and back; the woman missed, the weight she put on the slap pulled her off balance. She screamed, growing redder with every insult she hurled at Mahariel.

                The crowd parted as four dwarven warriors pushed through. One of them eyed the human, grunted, then eyed Mahariel, who kept her chin level.

                “What’s this about,” the guard said.

                The human launched into a tirade about how the alienage were too lenient for letting a knife-ear loose. The guard for some reason let her go on and on until three other women and a mustached man elbowed their way to the front of the spectacle and escorted the woman from the market.

                “Accident?” the guard said when the crowd began to disperse.

                “Accident,” Mahariel said, even as her eyes began to mist.

                The dwarf stuck his arm up, fist closed and palm-down. He shook it twice. Mahariel cupped her hand under his fist and a small kerchief fell onto it. “They built an alienage nearby?”

                “I would not know.”

                The dwarf grunted as he eyed Mahariel head to toe. “Appreciate your restraint; wouldn’t want to clean _that_ mess.”  He grumbled something about surfacer politics before leading his squad back toward the gates.

                Just like that Mahariel was alone in front of the stall, broken glass glistening by her ale-soaked boots. She drew her hood around her head, dabbed blood from her cheek, and once again, she was just part of the crowd.

                She found Fenarel and the others at the end of the stone path of the market. The female elf was still with them, crouched by the bushes with her head between her knees.

                Master Ilen spotted her first and was quick to pull her off the road. “What were you thinking, da’len?”

                “I didn’t, really,” Mahariel admitted, to which the master craftsman replied with a sigh.

                The city elf finally looked up, red-nosed and teary. “I need to get back.”

                Fenarel gently sat beside her, leaving a foot of space between them. “To the market?”

                She nodded. Her eyes bounced from him, to Mahariel, to Variel, to master Ilen; ‘round and ‘round again. “You’re Dalish.”

                “We are,” master Ilen said the same time Variel asked, “You live with shemlen?”

                The elf shut her mouth with a _clack_. She stood, wiped her palms on her dress, began marching the way they had come. “No one watching the tents. I must return.”

                “Why not come with us?”

                The elf swiveled to face Mahariel, mouth open as though she heard a vulgar joke. Her eyes blinked faster than she can form words. Mahariel was starting to regret asking, when the elf shook her head. “I-my sister…”

                They watched her walk back to the market; Mahariel’s hand feeling emptier as the elf became smaller and smaller.

 

A bruise already made itself home under Mahariel’s left eye, right over the crest of her cheekbone.  The cut itself was not deep, despite it tearing a chunk of skin. Chuckling, she slammed her foot on a branch and snapped it in half. She threw both pieces into the growing pile to the side. More snapping came from behind. Sighing, Mahariel trudged to the small fire she made.

                “I heard what happened.”

                He was in his leathers, hair slicked back with water, sword by his hip, eyes on the welt on her face.

                “It’s not as exciting as they say,” Mahariel said.

                Tamlen pursed his lips as he sat next to her. “I should have come.”

                “No, you’d have hit the shem right back.”

                “Which is why”-Tamlen nudged his shoulder against hers – “I should have been there.”

                Mahariel could smell the flower on his skin, the same scent he always had from the time when Nyrene had to chase him to wrangle a shirt on him. She never knew what that flower was, nor will she ever ask. To her, it was Tamlen’s soap. Tamlen’s signature. Her eyes grew heavier, and she let them close, let her head fall on his shoulder.

                “You need a bath. At least wash your hair,” Tamlen said, so soft that Mahariel barely heard him. “Or I can do it for you.”

                Mahariel’s eyes snapped open. She was in her cot, sun blazed through the open door of the aravel, painting a golden rectangle on her blue curtain. Her armour lay on on the ground by the bed, along with her leggings and undershirt. As she sat up, her hair fanned over her shoulder – smooth and shiny, and smelled of citrus. Mahariel grasped at the last memories she had of yesterday, only to grab air. Frowning, she let herself plop over her covers, taking a deep breath to beat back the pounding in her temples. She smelled flowers, but before she could put a name to it, she was asleep.


	21. What's In a Name?

“Aren’t you supposed to meditate?”

                Merrill looked up from the circle of pink petals floating around her waist. “I am meditating,” she yelled over the drum of waterfalls behind and in front of her. Despite not having dunked her head, the tails of her hair were plastered down her nape from the spray; the white robes she wore clung to her skin, useless against the cold.

                From her shade under a tree, Mahariel shifted from one leg to the other. So far, the little pond they found uphill of the camp remained private; the traps she had set were untouched and she sensed no other presence nearby. But the throb on her cheek nagged her to be on her guard. They were closer to settlements, human and dwarven alike, than they ever had been before.

                In the water, Merrill had her eyes closed, hands palm up on either side. Her lips were moving with an unheard chant that evoked the gods. If followed strictly, she would remain in that state until the sun is at its highest in the sky. Mahariel looked up at the drifting clouds glowing soft yellow from the rising sun. Perhaps she should have invited Tamlen or Fenarel to guard with her. At the thought, Mahariel ran her hand down her braid. The citrus still stuck to the tresses, though Mahariel detected other scents there now: sweat, sunshine, and flowers. Shaking her head, she pushed off from the tree and knelt by the edge of the pond. With winter thawing, the water was not as chilling as it had been only days ago. Mahariel could picture herself taking a long refreshing bath; surely Merrill could heat the water if the weather got too cold.

                “Aren’t you supposed to be guarding me?”

                Mahariel smiled, eyes opening to find Merrill watching her now. The petals around her were no longer there, washed down the stairs of waterfall. “I am guarding,” she said, tapping her ear.

                “May I have a favour, lethallan,” Merrill said as she waded to shore.

                “Two if you like.”

                “Oh, why thank you.” She pointed at the fabric bag she had stuffed her clothes into. “In the side pocket.”

                Mahariel pulled the bag to her, reached inside. Her hand closed around metal: scissors.

                “Would you mind fixing my hair?” Merrill asked, eyes on her painted nails.

                Mahariel sighed, cupped her sister’s face, and said, “I don’t mind if you don’t mind bald patches.”

                Merrill’s eyes widened, then she laughed. Mahariel laughed along, secretly hoping she would not make the same mistake she had when she gave herself a fringe at age four.

                The sun was at its crest when Mahariel had washed off the last bits of hair from Merrill’s nape. She had not given Merrill any bald patches; in fact, she had done a clean cut thanks to years of training with a blade.

                “Merrill? It’s done.” She patted her shoulders when she received no response.

                Merrill’s hand came up slowly to feel the layers of her hair. “Thank you, lethallan.”

                Soft as her voice was, Mahariel had to lean in to hear the next words: “I think it’s time.”

                They walked back to camp; Merrill in her Keeper robes with her staff in hand side by side with Mahariel in her full armour. Elders had gathered as the two entered camp grounds, offering their blessings as Merrill passed them. Keeper Marethari stood at the door of her aravel, regal and calm. As they halted in front of her, she held her hands out for Merrill. The latter looked over her shoulder at Mahariel, smiled, and took the Keeper’s hand. The doors closed behind them, and Mahariel found herself staring at the simple frame, bare like her own face.

 

It was a little past midnight when a prod to the foot woke Mahariel. Two more pokes forced her to crack an eye and roll on her cot. Higher and to the right of her feet, blue light flickered three times in quick succession. Mahariel sat up, realised the prodding came from a long thin branch slipped through the opened window. At once, she threw her covers aside, doubled her tunic and buttoned her cloak. She carried her winter boots out the aravel and put them on once the door was closed.

                Tamlen rounded the corner just as Mahariel stomped her heels to get her feet comfortable. He was similarly bundled with a fur-lined coat, his gloved hand holding an ignited firestone.

                “I have to show you something,” he whispered, the blue light making his eyes even bluer.

                “Now?” Mahariel whispered back.

                He slipped his arm through hers and led her back around the aravel. They kept walking, veering away from patrolling hunters until they crossed the outer ring of camp. Only then did Tamlen raise the firestone to light their path. They weaved between trees in silence – there was only the occasional rustle of grass on clothes as Tamlen ducked here and there.

                After a few minutes of walking, a break in the mountain forest allowed moonlight to shine through to the ground. From the clean cut that ran from the peak down toward the lowlands, Mahariel guessed the break had been a pass long abandoned and forgotten.

                “Dwarven,” Tamlen said as he jogged to a stone block jutting from the ground. Mostly moss covered and jagged, its original purpose was hard to tell. But there were runes engraved on its battered surface. Angular and rigid, like the ones embossed on the Orzammmar gates.

                Mahariel ran her fingers over the runes. “I wonder what it says.”

                “Close your eyes.”

                Eyebrows raised, Mahariel turned to Tamlen. “How would you-”

                “No, I meant close your eyes.”

                His hands were at his sides, open and innocent. He had a casual smile, small and closed-lipped. Mahariel squinted at him. “What are you up to?”

                “Nothing that involves squishy slimy things, I promise.” He smiled truly this time, which eased Mahariel a little.

                “I swear, Tamlen…” Mahariel closed her eyes. Suddenly her pulse was everywhere – in her ears, throat, chest. She can even feel it in her fingertips. The waterfalls thundered in the distance, muffled by the trees but carried by the gentle wind. In front of her, Tamlen gulped a breath. Click of boots on loose stone. Flowers, mingled with sweat and leather. A wall of heat an inch from her. Mahariel stepped back, only to stumble against the ruin.

                “Relax,” Tamlen said. “I’m only clipping something to your ear- Ah, ah! No, keep your eyes closed.”

                “Easier said,” Mahariel grumbled.

                Yet she kept her eyes shut, even if she dreaded not knowing what was happening. Tamlen’s finger flicked the tip of her ear, and she flinched, slapped his hand away. Both stared at each other wide-eyed. Every nerve in her body flared at once, a feeling she unfortunately understood. Her face warmed, and she could only hope that Tamlen could not notice her redness.

                “Sorry,” she and Tamlen said at the same time. They laughed, short and stiff.

                “Here, just look at the ground,” Tamlen said as he went back to fiddling with her left ear.

                Mahariel drew runes on her thigh as she felt a metal tube slide down the top of her ear. It had leather padding on the inside, from the feel of the material. Tamlen pressed on its sides, and the metal closed on the cuff of her ear.

                “There,” he sighed as he stepped away.

                Mahariel ran her fingers along her new accessory. Two inches long, engraved with vine-like patterns. “It would have been nice to see it first.”

                Tamlen shrugged, blowing a strand of hair from his eyes. “It’s a hinge. Remove the needle from the spine and _pop!_ It’s off.”

                Indeed, Mahariel felt the ridge and the head of the pin that locked the piece. “What’s it for?”

                Another shrug. “Little pockets line the inside – good for needles, or lockpicks.”

                Mahariel’s jaw dropped.

                Tamlen's hands snapped up. “Not for thieving! I had it re-made after those chasind locked you up.”

                “What?”

                He ran both hands through his hair, taking a deep breath. “When I heard about how the wilders captured you, I thought it would be a good tool to have in case something like that happens again. You are, after all, familiar in how to use it.”

                “True. Wait, you had it re-made?”

                He nodded, chewed on his lip. “Well, I made it with help from- well, anyway, it was just a normal cuff.”

                Mahariel rubbed her temples. “Modified after I came back with Namassa. And you had it all this time? Why give it to me now?”

                Now it was Tamlen’s jaw that dropped. Then he laughed. “You forgot. Mythal have mercy, you forgot?”

                She spread her arms to the side, shaking her head. “What? What is it?”

                He clapped his hands in amusement, laughter unashamedly coming out of his wide grin. Mahariel had no choice but to wait for his laughter to fade since he could not even manage to say a word. Arms crossed, back against the stone ruin, she felt a smile growing on her face.

               Finally, he got control of himself and came to stand in front of her. A smile was still on his face, sweet and delighted. He took her hands in his and gave a little squeeze. “Happy birthday, Vie.”

                Mahariel blinked. “What did you say?”

                “I said-” Tamlen leaned in so that he was level with Mahariel’s eyes “-happy birthday, Vie.”

                By the Creators, did she hear him correctly?

                “You called me Vie,” was all she could say.

                Tamlen chuckled. “Is that not your name?”

                Despite the riot in Mahariel’s head, she managed a little chuckle – bubbly, incredulous, with a touch of uncertainty.

                When they headed back toward camp, Tamlen leading the way with his firestone, Mahariel said, “You know, the chasind didn’t use locks. They had three-inch thick planks shoved tight through iron brakets.”

                Tamlen made a pensive sound. “Then I guess I gave you a useless gift.”

                In the dark, Mahariel smiled. She received two gifts that early morning; and neither was meaningless.


	22. An Unexpected Switch

The hem of the dress swirled, glinting here and there from colourful beads that hung from the gossamer skirt, as Mahariel turned to the mirror. The peach fabric was almost too bright paired with the tint of her skin; if the colour were a tone lighter, she’d appear naked. More so than she already felt due to the rather low collar and the sleeves that were nothing more than strings of beads draped on her arms.

                “This is not safe,” Mahariel said. “A blade of grass can stab me if I simply sat.”

                 Over her shoulder, Ashalle smiled, squeezed her arms. “Only for one day, da’len; after today, we can keep it out of sight forever. Oh, but it fits perfectly,” she said.

                Mahariel laughed, pointed at the lump of cloth on Ashalle’s bed. “Only after you chopped off half the skirt.”

                But she had to admit: aside from the lack of protection, she enjoyed the way it pooled and swirled at her feet, the clinks of beads against each other as she moved, the rosy glow the peach lent to her complexion, the tease of skin and muscle and shape. Ashalle had a point, as always. Once the day was over, when it was no longer _her_ day, the armour would be back on.

                “You look wonderful, Mahariel,” Ashalle said as she placed a kiss on her cheek. “Now, your hair.”

 

* * *

 

Tamlen rubbed at his eyes - partially due to bits of stray hair from his haircut, partially due to the fact that he had not gone back to sleep after giving Mahariel her gift. He wasn’t able to. In his mind he could still see redness of the tip of her ear, the movement underneath her eyelids, the little frown on her brow, and her smile as she touched the ear piece he made for her. Most of all, he could still hear the gasp she let out and the dark look in her eyes. Tamlen cleared his throat, ran his hand through his hair and down his face. It could be his imagination, but he could still feel Mahariel’s grip on his wrist when she had smacked his hand away. There was no mark there, no bruise. Maybe he needed sleep.

                A shadow fell onto Tamlen’s open palm. “A little help would be nice. It’ll be time soon.”

                Tamlen looked up to see Fenarel heave a large pot onto the table. Beef and corn mingled with roasting nuts and cooking firewood. As the latter took off a pair of mittens, he studied Tamlen – the higher his eyes travelled, the more he pursed his lips.

                “Should I even ask?” Fenarel said.

                “No. We’ve talked about it enough.”

                Fenarel took in a breath, nodding in understanding. “About time,” he said and walked back to the cooking pits.

                Tamlen bolted after him, grabbed his arm and dragged him back to the tables. He recounted what happened at midnight as detailed as he dared; halfway through both he and Fenarel were leaning over the table whispering to each other.

                “Why didn’t you just hand her the thing?” Fenarel said, pushing the steaming pot away from his face.

                “Because!” Tamlen said, gesturing at the empty space in front of him. “It didn’t feel right.”

                “But scaring her did?”

                Tamlen scoffed. “She wasn’t scared.”

                Elbows on the table, a hand gripping his hair, Fenarel sighed. “Lethallin, you know she gets restless when she hears 'eyes' , 'close' , and 'give'  in the same sentence.”

                “ _I_ wasn't the one who handed her a leech.”

                “My point is, what exactly did you want to happen?”

                It was simple, really. He just wanted to surprise her - like how she hid a pure blood-red rock under his covers for his sixteenth birthday. That gift caused him a sore back; so he kept it under his pillow instead.

                Drumming his fingers on the table, Tamlen shrugged. “She was there, and I just did.”

                “That impulse will get you killed someday.”

                Tamlen kicked his foot under the table, making Fenarel jump and curse at him. “Look, I didn’t it plan it that way. But she was trying to read dwarven runes under the moonlight and she was-” his eyes flicked over Fenarel’s shoulder “-beautiful.”

                Fenarel snorted, rolled his eyes. “I believe you said that already. Many times. Never stopped since she got back from the wilds. Annoying, really.”

                But Tamlen was no longer listening. His eyes were across the field of tables and chairs, on a young woman in a flowing dress with dark curls bouncing down her back. At his silence, Fenarel finally turned in his seat to follow his gaze.

                “By the Creators,” he said, beaming. “My little sister is all grown up.” He stood and waved.

                Tamlen grabbed him by the belt and pulled him back on the bench. Too late. Mahariel had noticed and now made her way towards them. Her feet played a game of hide-and-seek as the dress swished with her every step. Her curled hair was tucked behind her ears; Tamlen perked at the glimmer of the cuff on her left ear. She had not taken it off. Or she did, but she put it back. Tamlen’s fingers uncurled from the table edge one by one, his shoulders lowered.

                “Should I take my leave, lethallin?” Fenarel asked.

                Tamlen stared at him. Then he glanced at Mahariel only a few paces away now. His palms were suddenly cold and damp. An itch started somewhere in his body, somewhere he couldn't pinpoint, somewhere he couldn’t reach.  It was like a repeat of the day he saw her with the avvar mage. “Stay, please.”

                Fenarel got up. Tamlen almost jumped out of seat to grab him. He stopped when he realised the former only meant to greet Mahariel, thus allowing him a few moments on his own. Tamlen took deep breaths as he watched Fenarel take Mahariel in his arms and spun her around. Her hair and the tail of her dress fanned the air, and Tamlen thought he smelled citrus. Fenarel set her down, kissed her cheek, and murmured something that made her smile. Then she locked eyes with him. Just that look had him grinning. He waved her over, arms ready to pull her in a hug.

                She hummed as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Her hands held onto his back, warm and firm.

                “You’re eighteen,” Tamlen said against her hair.

                “Seems that way.”

                “I was eighteen once. But I don’t remember the celebration.”

                She pulled away laughing. “You drank from the Keeper’s glass.”

                Head cocking, Tamlen searched his memories of that night. He remembered the dance around the fire, Mahariel spitting Fenarel’s wine back into his cup, sneaking underneath the table Keeper Marethari had sat. Nothing else.

                “Look who is forgetful now,” Mahariel said with a smirk.

                The wind picked up a lock of her hair, blocking her face. Tamlen’s hand moved to hook the strands back behind her ear. That’s when she went still - smile frozen like Tamlen’s hand. There was that look in her eyes again, as though she was watching and waiting. For what? Should he give her a kiss too? Twirl her around? Instead of doing any of that, Tamlen ran his hand down Mahariel’s hair.

                “It suits you,” he said.

                Her smile thawed. She linked her arms with each of the boys’ and led them to the Keeper’s aravel.

                “It’s about time we get Merrill.”

 

Night descended; fire blazed toward the sky, joining in the dance of lutes and drums. A line still grew behind the long table laden with the ripest fruits, greenest vegetables, and richest meat. Laughter and stories bubbled in the air as a ring of elves danced around the fire.

                Tamlen lounged on the rugs spread over the grass, eyes tracking Mahariel as she and Merrill spun around each other while twirling a fan of leaves in each hand. It was only because of the glittering beads cascading down Mahariel’s arms, little balls of firelight, that Tamlen managed to keep sight of her amid other dresses and limbs and fans. Her lips were moving, eyes on Merrill, who later pressed her lips close to stifle a laugh.

                Tamlen hummed in sympathy. Throughout the naming ceremony, the new First had to endure the sting of the vallaslin – worse than a cut for every twitch of muscle; and being the most expressive person Tamlen had ever known...Merrill had to be tougher than she looked to have managed staying conscious this long. Mahariel slowed her dance, her own hand drifting to her bare face. Bare aside from the welt a shemlen noble had given her.

                He nudged the reclined figure next to him.

                “Hm?” Fenarel asked around a strawberry.

                “That shemlen, why didn’t you stop her?”

                Sighing, Fenarel popped the entire fruit into his mouth. He chewed a while, following Tamlen’s gaze. “And reveal the clan’s presence? Make the situation worse?”

                “She struck Mahariel, your little sister.”

                Fenarel was silent though his eyes were heavy on Tamlen’s sharp profile. Before the former’s words crossed his lips, Tamlen knew where his thoughts had gone.

                “Just _mine_?”

                A light jab. Still, Tamlen winced. With an exhale, he unclenched his fist, stretched his fingers as far as they could go. “Yes.”

                Fenarel sat up, his bowl of strawberries pushed aside. “You’ve thought it through, then?”

                Perhaps he had thought of their recent fight too much. Maybe he was seeing things, feeling things that were mere constructs of his desperation to restore his relationship with Mahariel to the way it was before she left for the Korcari Wilds. Whatever the case may be, her words troubled his sleep.

                _Is that all I am?_

Tamlen sat up straight as he watched Mahariel spin under Junar’s arm. His teeth clashed together. “She was right: in my eyes, no one will ever be good enough for her.”

                “Except you.”

                Tamlen ripped a fistful of grass in front of him. He churned dirt and grass in his palm, only letting the clumps fall through his fingers when his hand began shaking. Did he really believe that? Was he that arrogant? Yet the only one he saw hunting by her side, dancing with her, exploring the world with her, was himself.

                “I don’t want to further ruin our friendship,” Tamlen said, slapping the remaining dirt off his palm.

                “What if you won’t?”

                He stared at Fenarel, laughter beginning to rumble in his chest. It died, however, as he registered his carefully neutral face. “You know something?”

                Fenarel took back his strawberries, biting the tip of one as he gazed at the dancers. “I know that if you don’t at least try, nothing will happen. Besides, last year has come and gone; you’ve matured. Well, she did.”

                Tamlen’s head dropped to his hand. Mahariel now stood by the bonfire, palms toward its warmth. She had tied her hair high on her head, revealing the curve of her neck and the lacework that covered her back. Eyes sharp, shoulders square, and gilded by firelight, she looked nothing like the grass-stained child who cried for her absent mother. She was no longer the little sister.

                _Is that all I am?_

                “She’s so much more, lethallin," Tamlen admitted. "I don't know what I want. What I want from her. What I want our relationship to be. And that scares me.”

                Fenarel laughed. So loud that the group around the bonfire paused to look. Tamlen considered punching him but he saw Mahariel turn as well, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

                “Oh, Tamlen,” Fenarel said, clapping the other on the shoulder. “When has fear ever stopped you?”  

                When, indeed.

                Tamlen chuckled humorlessly. The answer was: never.


	23. First Step Among Many

The first drop fell from the heavy sky onto Tamlen’s cheek just as the cracked cobbled road came to an end between two stone statues of beasts whose heads were smashed clean off. Rolling hills pricked and pushed against the horizon as though straining to hold off the coming storm, and in their ranks joined a castle. Its battlements and arches had long crumbled either from war or time; yet the lone building that had survived thrust to the sky, its peak puncturing the clouds. Tamlen scanned the fields, frowning at the lack of movement. Surely the escaped halla could not have gone farther into the valley; yet the greenery continued to the horizon without a blot of white fur.

                 Something cold grabbed his wrist; Tamlen spun, sword in defense.

                 A curse. The snap of vambraces as they clashed. Then the low whistle of the wind as two hunters stared at each other.

                 Tamlen withdrew with a huff, glaring at Mahariel as he sheathed his sword at his hip. “Don’t do that.”

                 She edged toward the break in the road, where the packed soil and outcrops dropped several feet down. “There’s no other way down. Unless we backtrack to the column.”

                 Tamlen looked over his shoulder. The statue of a shemlen mage posturing on a pillar could hardly be seen anymore, except for the back of its head and the marble tip of its staff. Mahariel eyed the statue as well, chewing on the inside of her cheek. A spark lit up the sky, followed by waves of thunder. Then they were pelted with rain.

                 “We’re already here,” Tamlen said, unslung his pack and dug for a rope. “We might as well find proper shelter.”

                 Mahariel jerked her chin at the ruins, eyes blinking away the water gathered by her dark lashes. The corners of her lips tightened - so miniscule that Tamlen would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching intently.

                 “We don’t know what’s in there,” she said, pulling the hood of her cloak lower on her face until her eyes were a mere band of shadow.

                 “The poor girl, maybe; she’s not good with storms.” Tamlen unknotted the coil of rope, whipping it once to unravel the whole length on the ground. As he made a loop and secured it around the base of one of the beast statues, he added over his shoulder, “If not her-“

                 “Then we’ll find out,” Mahariel finished.  She turned toward the ruin again, lips pressed tight, then down at the rope.

                 The shoulders of her cloak were browner now instead of the green of pine leaves; soil jammed its way under her toenails and caked her reddening heels. A suggestion of sleep and rest was ready to fall from Tamlen’s tongue, but before he could voice it Mahariel kicked the mass of rope off the edge. Tamlen let go of the loop in time for it to snap taut as the length of it tumbled into air, whipping dust and loose roots from the cliff.

                 “Shall I go first?” Mahariel asked, flexing her fingers as she tugged her gloves on.

                 “I thought you disapprove.”

                 She laughed, light but short. “I’d rather not be struck by lightning.” She gripped the rope in both hands and jumped.

 

The castle was thoroughly abandoned. No wrecked tables, cabinets, beds; nothing that can be carried out through the gaping doorway. Those that were left were in decay – cobwebs wrapped the iron candelabras bolted on the roof, rust ate the steel frame of broken stained-glass windows, dust paved the hallways and rooms. Only two pairs of footprints disturbed the ruin, trailing water from the receiving hall to one of the smaller rooms in the right wing where Tamlen and Mahariel piled the wood they had gathered and built a fire.

                Out of his soaked cloak and shirt, Tamlen prodded the flames to life despite it hissing and spitting in protest. It was moments like this that Tamlen wished that he had the gift of magic, that his people still had that gift, that the shemlen had not come and taken everything from them. Mahariel often spoke to him about the same wishes, how unfair she felt that she had not inherited her father’s gift, her concern for having only two mages in their clan. Had she been a mage, they would have no problem lighting a fire. Of course, they would not be in this situation in the first place. Tamlen would be hunting somewhere with Fenarel, and Mahariel would be with the Keeper at all times. Frowning, Tamlen gave the wood a shove. The fire snapped. Finally it began to leech the moisture from wood and burn the outer bark. Still, it would take a while more before the flames could light all corners of the room. With a sigh, Tamlen left the fire to stand under the doorway. The main hall was filled with shadows now, yet there was no sign of Mahariel or the halla.

                 “I can see better in the dark,” Mahariel had said.

                 “Someone needs to set camp,” she said.

                 She made sense; at the moment Tamlen resented it. The castle was a vast maze of shadows and she was out there alone with only a firestone. She had her weapons, but what good were they against holes in the ground or crumbling ceilings.

                 Despite his better judgement, Tamlen donned his armour, strapped his weapons. He dipped a stripped cloth into a jar of oil, wrapped it around the thickest wood from their pile, and set it aflame. His torch barely reached beyond six feet and he was thankful for the lack of obstacles called furniture. Casting the light closer to the ground, Tamlen followed the footprints cleared of dust. They led to a doorway close to the end of the hall, which - like all the other doorways – was missing its door. Beyond it was a set of stairs going up, along with the footprints. Tendrils of web hung from the arched ceiling, broken by Mahariel’s passing. Tamlen touched the torch to the webs; he did not like the amount and thickness of the strings. He took the stairs two at a time, wanting to call for Mahariel, but he kept his mouth shut and his sword drawn.

                 A narrow hall ran perpendicular to the stairs, the ceiling disappearing in the gloom above. On the opposite wall ran a series of windows, majority of it broken. Rain barged through the panes, washing the dust from the floor. Tamlen ran the torch low on the ground, wet stone shining from firelight. The wind whistled through the hall, calling the hair on Tamlen’s neck to stand. Murmuring a curse, Tamlen turned right. He held the torch higher - close to the wall – while his left hand raised his sword. From the layout of the ground floor, he should be past the back wall of the receiving hall. That, however, told him nothing.

                 Lightning clapped the heavens. The flash of light illuminated the stretch of stone in front of Tamlen, except for a block of shadow a few feet away. He jogged toward it. As he thought, it was a doorway; its hinges stuck out from stone. A stairs led down. Realisation washed down his back like ice-water: the dust was untouched. Tamlen ran a hand through his hair. He had four options: continue down the hall, go back the other way, go back to their camp, or go down the stairs. Where would Mahariel go? Strategically, she would favour to free her sword hand, choose to put the wall on her weaker side. But Mahariel was proficient with both hands; she could have gone left or right. Down the stairs was least likely. Unless she somehow learned how to walk on walls during her training in the Wilds.

                 With a huff Tamlen continued down the hall. Again, he thought of calling out to Mahariel. But hahren Paivel’s voice echoed inside the empty castle, whispering stories of spirits and demons. Tamlen ground his teeth. The windows to his left ended. The rain and wind muffled by the stone wall that flanked him. Tamlen lowered the torch. His throat dried. His knuckles cracked as he choked the hilt of his sword. In front of him, pristine dust carpeted the floor as far as the torchlight reached. Tamlen ran, feet barely touching the ground as he backtracked. He zipped pass the stairway where Mahariel’s footprints ended. A few feet beyond it was a room. Tamlen shoved the torch inside.

                 “Mahariel?”

                 Only his own voice answered. He continued on, found two more rooms – both empty. Thunder rumbled. One of the glass pieces on the window trembled and splintered to the ground. Tamlen picked up his pace, Mahariel’s name pounding the stone maze.  Just as the gallery of windows ended, another stairway branched to the left. Tamlen ran past it, torch held ahead. Three feet, five, ten. He stopped. A swirling mosaic glinted at him – a golden serpent with red eyes. Cursing, Tamlen ran back to the stairwell he had passed. Shock no longer froze his blood at seeing undisturbed dust, but frustration burned in his throat worse than the strain of yelling Mahariel’s name. Praying to the creators for guidance, he plunged down the stairwell. Narrow and low, his breath spurred the flame of his torch, almost singing his eyebrows. Yet Tamlen continued to call her name as he leapt three steps at a time.

                 Then he heard it: _Clop, clop. Clop clop_. Like hooves. Torch high and sword ready, Tamlen burned through a webbed archway and stepped out unto a courtyard. The torch hissed and sputtered; before it could die Tamlen stuck it through a sconce at the base of the stairs. A white broad chest appeared through the downpour. Its horns cut the mist, hooves parted overgrown weed-flowers. A gasp escaped Tamlen. He ran into the rain, hands out to greet the halla. She nuzzled his palm twice, then nudged his chest. She turned and walked back where she came from. Lighting flashed and Tamlen glimpsed a ring of marble in the middle of the overrun garden.

                 Tamlen jogged after the halla, anxiety thrummed through his veins, making his fingers tingle. He reminded himself to breathe through his nose. Three counts on the inhale, seven counts on the exhale. The halla’s fur was wet and course under his palm, the heat from her body seeped into his own. By the time they reached the marble ring, the tingling had faded. Something cold and seeping – something aside from rain – settled in Tamlen’s gut as he saw the crushed ledge that broke the ring and the ten feet marble woman that lay next to it. The halla snorted, clopped closer and peered over the ledge. Tamlen did the same. His eyes went wide and he felt the storm in his blood.

                 Several feet below with only a small blue sphere beating back the darkness, Mahariel looked up at him with the same wide-eyed shock. One of her blades was steady in her right hand though the firestone trembled in her left. Streaks of blood ran down her arms and her left temple. But she smiled. Half of Tamlen wanted to laugh, the other wanted to lecture his friend for insisting on searching alone. Instead, he said, “I found you.” It was the halla who truly found her, but Mahariel nodded anyway.

                 “Care to get me out?”

                 Tamlen scanned the area. He could go back to camp and get the rope, but he loathed to leave Mahariel alone again. Instead his eyes climbed along the creeping vines on the wall. “Give me a minute.”

 

The minute turned to ten, but at the end of it Mahariel stood next to Tamlen, scratched and panting but otherwise unharmed. Her armour was soaked through, hair plastered on her face. Her teeth clattered against each other even as she thanked him. Tamlen cupped her face, brushed her hair back, embraced her. Mahariel’s gasp tickled the hair on his nape and he shivered.

                 “I worried you,” Mahariel whispered.

                 “I always worry for you.” Tamlen released her and led her and the halla inside.

                 Once back beside their now-blazing fire, Tamlen left the room for Mahariel to change. The halla slept outside the door, the firelight turning her horns golden. Each creak of Mahariel’s armour multiplied three times over in the empty dark hall. Tamlen himself untied his armguards and removed his breastplate. Now that adrenaline left his body, he could no longer fight to open his eyes. So he removed his sodden shirt and sat by the door, leaning on the wall as he let his body relax.

                 Moments later – minutes, hours, he didn’t know – Tamlen woke up to Mahariel’s face inches from his own. One hand rested on his shoulder, the other on his cheek. She stared at him neutrally, but the tips of her ears were red. Or was it just the firelight?

                 “You’re cold,” she said. “Come inside.”

                 Her hands began to withdraw, taking the warmth with them. Tamlen caught her hand, pressed it firmer on his cheek. “From now on, I’m going wherever you’re going.”

                 She was silent, unmoving. Tamlen blinked the sleep from his eyes, sat straighter.

                 “I mean it, Vie.”

                 One of her fingers twitched. Her eyes dropped to the ground. She took two breaths, slow and deep, and then looked back up. “I have no problems with that.”

                 She didn’t smile or laugh, or anything. But Tamlen noticed that her ears were indeed red. She drew her hand back gently as she stood. Only now did Tamlen realise she had tied her blanket around herself like a dress. The knot behind her neck snagged bits of her hair, though most of it was draped over her bare shoulder.

                 “I’m going inside now,” she said. “And I need help with my scratches.”

                 With a laugh, Tamlen climbed to his feet, groaning at the pins and needles inside his leg. “I’m right behind you.”


	24. First Full Bloom

Mahariel’s breath stirred the hair tucked behind Tamlen’s ear, hot and shaky. Even more so than the fingers that pulled his shoulders close, or the thighs that pressed against his waist. Star speckled the sky, sharp and dazzling without clouds to hinder them; it was almost uncouth for Mahariel to close her eyes on them, but the lips on her neck was persuasive. Her own lips sighed his name in response; her hand threaded through sweat-soaked hair to keep him in place, her chest rose to meet his. He was burning. Or was it her?

                Tamlen’s kisses followed the curve of her jaw to the point of her chin, only to dip to the base of her throat. A complaint began to form in Mahariel’s mouth. But as Tamlen kissed and licked lower and lower, words melted into moans then the moans dissolved into gasps. It was a though a fever raged inside her body, threatened to spill over and scorch the ground they lay on. But she did not want to stop. She reached down, cupped Tamlen’s face in her hands and pulled him for a kiss. It was sloppy and eager. Teeth and tongue and slurred whispers.

                Tamlen pulled away first, red-faced and grinning. “The earth is tumbling around,” he said.

                Mahariel’s hand stopped its way up his chest. “Are we rushing?”

                “In truth?” He laughed, head shaking as he looked her in the eyes. “I like this pace.”

                Smiling now, Mahariel touched her knuckles to his cheek.

                Tamlen screamed; Mahariel flinched. He crashed to the ground, hands clamped over his face as he shrivelled into a ball. Mahariel reached out, about to ask what was wrong, but then she found the answer.

                Her right hand was on fire. She felt the flames lap at her palms and singe her lashes. She felt her blood in her veins rushing to fuel the fire. At her feet, Tamlen convulsed, yelling for her to make it stop. She waved her hands, flailed her arms; still, she burned.

                Tamlen rolled to his back, heels pushing his body off the blanket. “Vie, please!”

                Blood oozed from his right cheek, streaks of it smeared on his chest and temple as he thrashed to put the fire out. But there was no fire. The only thing on fire was Mahariel’s hand - held out to the side, useless and dangerous. Yet his skin peeled from his face like wax, exposing flesh and muscle. And she stood there, agape, watching.

                Tamlen’s wide blue eyes bore into hers, his hand reached for her. “Help me!”

                Mahariel took a step but before she could reach him his fingers turned black. Then his palm, his arm, his shoulder, his chest. Then Tamlen crumbled to ashes.

                Mahariel shrieked.

                Hands pressed on her arms. Voices, muffled and urgent, floated around her. Her legs were pinned together and tendrils smothered air from her lungs. One of her arms was released; Mahariel swung at the body hovering over her.

                A yelp. Then an order: “Calm, da'mis. It was a nightmare.”

                A nightmare.

                From the corner of her eye Mahariel caught the small flicker of candlelight webbed through by what she now recognized as her tangled hair. Gentle fingers brushed the hair plastered on her face and out of her mouth, wiping sweat and tears away.

                “You are here now, Mahariel,” Ashalle said. “You are here.”

                She stared up at the pale face of her guardian. She was gulping air but none seemed to reach her lungs. Each pound in her chest tightened the knot in her temples and between her eyes. Ashalle grabbed her hands, and Mahariel gasped at the heat of the former’s hands.

                “Hush, my dear. You’ll be alright,” Ashalle kept whispering as she squeezed and rubbed down her ward’s arms. “Keep your eyes on the light.”

                Mahariel held on to Ashalle’s skirt as the latter untangled the blanket from her limbs. She kept repeating her words in her mind like a chant more sacred than the blessings of the Creators. It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare. She was in camp, with her clan, with Ashalle. With Tamlen.

                The door banged open and Ashalle and Mahariel jumped. Tamlen stood in the doorway – shirt untied and sword in hand. A few seconds behind was Keeper Marethari, her silver braid shining green from the power crackling in her palms. Clinks and murmurs barged into the room as well, and Mahariel could see in her mind the crowd of hunters outside her door. Tamlen’s eyes whipped to all corners of the room, all of which in shadows but otherwise clear of dangers. Mahariel let go of the breath she was holding, and with it came Tamlen’s name. His eyes went to her, vivid yet jumpy.

                “She could not wake from a nightmare, Keeper,” Ashalle explained, giving Mahariel one last pat before lighting more candles.

                Keeper Marethari nodded, cut off the energy in her palms then raised a hand to the crowd behind her. With relieved sighs and creaking armour, the hunters outside either returned to their posts or to their beds. Tamlen remained where he was, eyes on Mahariel even as the Keeper sat in front of her.

                Keeper Marethari raised her hand, fingers folded except for the first and middle fingers.  “May I, da’len?”

                Mahariel’s mouth moved, but her voice did not come. She nodded and closed her eyes. The Keeper touched her temple; a cold trickle crept up her head and down her neck. Where the magic touched, her muscled loosened, as though the spell ate the strings that bound her body into contorted knots. Mahariel rolled her shoulders, stretched her fingers.

                “Thank you, Keeper.”

                “I doubt you want to tell me what you saw?”

                She glanced at Tamlen, only to cast her eyes on the Keeper’s lap. She took a deep breath and exhaled through her mouth.

                “Rest now, Mahariel,” the Keeper said. As she walked to the door, she placed a hand on Ashalle’s arm. The latter followed her out of the aravel.

                Soon as the door closed Tamlen dropped to his knees in front of her. He brushed the tangles of her hair back, tucked them behind her ears. His eyes roved her face for injuries, as though a dream could leave a physical mark. But Mahariel didn’t stop him; her own eyes scanned the angles of his nose and jaw, the curve of his eyes and lips. She began to touch her fingertips to his cheek when his burned face flashed in her mind. She snapped her hand back and tucked them under her thighs.

                “You’re unhurt,” Mahariel said instead.

                Tamlen paused in his inspection to frown at her. Then his eyes widened. His hands were back on her face, thumbs wiping tear stains off her cheek. “I’m fine. So are you, Vie. You are awake now. Whatever you saw, it was a dream; nothing more. This-” he rose higher on his knees to press his forehead against hers. “-this is the waking world. Do you believe me?”

                His breath fanned her cheeks, his eyelashes almost brushed her own, the tip of his nose nudged against hers. Images from the dream flashed before her eyes, this time they were of pleasure instead of fear. She banished them all the same. It was a dream; nothing more. Mahariel smiled. Her vision fractured under new tears. Tamlen wrapped her in his arms, tucked her head into the crook of his neck. He was solid and strong, warm and caring. Mahariel nestled closer, allowed him to carry her weight, to hear her sobs and her sniffling.

                “I’m here, Vie. I will always be here for you.”

                The room darkened as though the candles were blown out one by one until only a small spot of light remained. Its flame shivered under the breath of the window, where a white flower with a blood-red centre peeked over the sill.


	25. The Wheels in Motion

Mahariel hammered the pommel with the heel of her hand; leather parted for the knife like a court receiving its queen. The arm which the vambrace was supposed to protect twisted and tugged, but with the hilt pinned to the ground all the shaking could do was chafe the ties against the blade. Mahariel wiped the mix of sweat and rain from her forehead as she lifted her knee from Tamlen’s sternum. Once her weight was off him he rolled to his side and ripped the knife out of his ruined armbrace.

                “That was unnecessary,” he griped.

                She knew it was. With her sword at his neck, it was clear who won the fight. Yet Tamlen had lain there, smiling as though Mahariel had not just disarmed and kicked him to his ass within three minutes. Did he suddenly acquire a taste for losing? Mahariel had asked him this, to which he replied, “I’m comfortable down here.” She had no idea what to do with those words, much less the wink that followed. And so she put her frustration into her knife.

                A sharp click of sword meeting scabbard was Mahariel’s only reply for Tamlen. She snagged the jug of water resting on the base of a tree and drank straight from it.

                Tamlen, watching with raised eyebrows, leaned his shield and sword on the tree. “Are you that thirsty?”

                He didn’t wait for her reply. He took the jug from her and drank the rest of the water. Droplets trickled down his neck – water or sweat, Mahariel didn’t know and didn’t care. All she was sure of was that she could not stop her eyes from following the beads down to the collar of his armour.  She took a deep breath, shook her head, and began to head back to camp. Tamlen ran after her, his breathing rather loud from the training and now the jogging.

                With the constant showers that came with the beginning of Cloudreach, the whole camp had fallen into a greyer temperament. Though for Mahariel it was the little red and white flower on her window sill that made her less inclined to sit by the fire with the other hunters long after the tables have been cleared. Two evenings she had sat with Merrill on the ground by her cot, the plant between them.

                “See? It’s healthy.” Merrill had bent to sniff at the lone bloom, only to frown and wipe at her nose afterwards. “If a bit pungent.”

                From then on Mahariel liked the flower less. How she came upon the flower was ominous enough, now there were the dreams. Fenarel had said - over a bowl of porridge - that a plant could not possibly trigger the nightmares which tossed Mahariel out of her bed more than twice now. Mahariel’s brain agreed; it was not the plant itself that bothered her, but the girl who gave it. Despite all reason, she had latched onto the coincidence that the night she first dreamt of burning alive was the same night the first of the buds bloomed. What had the young witch said?

_Not on a pyre. In blood. It is a fever, and more._

                Mahariel was yanked to a stop. A step in front of her was one of the poles that supported the awning over her aravel. Fingers squeezed her hand, tugging gently. The earlier mirth from Tamlen had vanished, replaced by a delicate frown and questions in his eyes. Mahariel grabbed his hand tighter, pulled him under the shade, and sat on the steps by door.

                “Remember when the Chasind-”

                “Almost killed you? How can I not?”

                Mahariel laid his hand on her lap, clasped between hers, and rubbed her thumb along his knuckles. “I think that child was truly a seer.”

                Tamlen weaved his fingers between hers. “Didn’t you know that from the start?” He nodded his head to his left- to where the Chasind’s gift sat by a window.

                “Her words felt far off then. Now…”

                 She was hauled to her feet. Caught in her thoughts as she was, Mahariel missed the last step and would have tumbled to the ground were it not for Tamlen’s grip.

                “Apologies,” Tamlen said, sounding amused. “Why don’t we go for a walk.”

                Mahariel frowned up at him, though she didn’t release his hand. “In the rain?”

                A shrug.

                Tamlen led her across camp grounds, a tiny spring back in his steps. Children half dressed in mud waved at them - invitations to join their game - as they passed; Tamlen waved back, declining with a smile. As they made their way to the fore of the camp where trees began to stand further apart, two figures emerged from the Keeper’s aravel – one in full armour, the other in faded blue jerkin. The pair bowed their thanks to the Keeper in unison, glanced at each other, and - once the Keeper disappeared inside – reached for the other’s hand. Before Mahariel could get a clear view of their faces Tamlen took the bend turning left, taking them behind the ridge that hid their camp. They followed the trail Fenarel and Chandan scouted few days past, the same trail that led them to an injured buck – the clan’s dinner that night. As Fenarel reported, the trail ended at a creek. Full with rain, the banks expanded well over the line of lichen clinging to the stones. Mahariel hopped on a pile of huge rocks a few ways down the stream. They looked to be pieces form a single massive boulder, cracked by lightning and worn by time. There, the canopy overhead limited the downpour.

                “I’d jump in if the sun were out,” Mahariel said, patting the space next to her.

                Tamlen took his spot beside her, shaking his head. “I don’t see the difference. You’d be wet all the same.”

                 True. But the sun felt more welcome on her skin even if the rain was as warm. She missed the brightness, the light which made the world glitter like gemstones. One month more, Mahariel reminded herself. Thirty days before summer visits. Then she’d have to complain about the insects.

                “So why did you bring me here? Aside from the distraction.” Mahariel stretched out on the stone as best as she could.

                Tamlen’s hand ducked inside one of the pouches on his belt. Whatever he was looking for either was not there, or he changed his mind in bringing it out. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. I don’t know if it’s the right time.”

                She waited for him to continue, but only the creek mumbled, pattered by rain as it rushed to meet the river. Struck by sudden motivation, Mahariel slid off her rock and immediately unbuckled her belt. She tucked her swords between the rocks even as she untied her greaves.

                “What’s this?” Tamlen asked. He sounded truly surprised. His eyebrows rose high when Mahariel began unbuckling her chest plate.

                The more pieces of her armour fell to the ground, the redder Tamlen became. It was only as Mahariel began tugging off her leggings that he managed to swivel in the opposite direction. It was also only in that moment that Mahariel realized that she had not been so undressed in front of Tamlen since she was three. Swallowing the pebble that appeared in her throat, Mahariel decided to keep her tunic and bodice on. She strode into the creek, suppressing a shiver as the water lapped at her waist. On the pile of rocks, Tamlen sat still, back to her.

                “You’re not coming? The water is not that cold.”

                No answer. Then, he stood.

                “I’m going to stand guard.” He disappeared behind a tree.

                The swim lasted longer than Mahariel had planned, refreshing as the current was; her fingertips were ready to prune. As she sloshed her way to her pile of clothing, wringing water from her hair, a breath stilled her fingers. A few paces away stood Tamlen, a cloak draped over his arm. His eyes locked on hers, but the redness on his face told Mahariel that they had recently been elsewhere.

                “I didn’t mean…” His eyes dipped down, back up, then to the creek. Wordlessly, he offered the cloak.

               Mahariel could feel the heat on her face, the little prickles up her neck that told her she had done something stupid. Why could she suddenly not face Tamlen? Had she not stripped in front of him moments before? Schooling her expression, Mahariel closed the distance between them and took the cloak. His item delivered, Tamlen dove back among the trees.

                Mahariel stared at the cloak in her hands – his cloak, by the scent of it. Something gurgled and bubbled deep in her stomach, simultaneously weighing her down and whipping her forward. It was when she stood, fully dressed, alone by a pile of rocks that she put names to the feeling: disappointment and anticipation.


	26. Finally, The Truth

“I don’t like this,” Tamlen grumbled.

                There was nothing in the Dalish camp’s situation to like. While the summer had delivered the clan safely and well-fed to the northern tip of Lake Calenhad, the warm days and clear nights encouraged villagers to stroll through the endless fields that made up the Bannorns. Festivals and marriages demanded to be celebrated not only under the sun, but also under the moons; Mahariel suspected that the bi-anual appearance of the second moon, which doubled the light of the first, influenced the tradition. Even now, with the end of Bloomingtide approaching the people of the Oswin Bannorn trafficked the countryside either from or to a relative’s home.

                One particular family – merchants, from the bulk of their wagons – decided to pass the night by the River Dane. It was merely good sense to camp by water, but they were a day too close to the Dalish camp. Mahariel retreated beyond the fire of the five humans, her footsteps sure and silent. Only when the foliage blocked any sign of orange light did she turn to Tamlen.

                “We should tell the Keeper,” she said.

                Tamlen jabbed his thumb eastward. “And the boar?” By the pout in his voice, he seemed to already know the answer.

                Mahariel sighed. How long has it been since they saw a boar? She curled her hand at the crook of his elbow and led him around the bend of the river. They had scouted a nook further north where the land heaved and bunched just enough to provide a decent slope for a lean-to. Although they won’t have a vantage of the human campers, they would at least have easy access to fresh water and fish.

                Later in the night, as Tamlen cleaned the last of their meal Mahariel took the chance to wash the sweat and grit accumulated on her hair and skin during the day-long trek. She recognized the river as a luxury she might not have in the next months, so she intended to enjoy it to the fullest. As she settled on the rocky bed, hair weightless around her shoulders, suds drifting from her outstretched arms, she closed her eyes and tried to listen for the humans. She cast her mind above the rush of river, imagined herself looking down at the family. A laugh, barely there. Perhaps it was only her imagination.

                A snap of twig.

                Mahariel backed herself against an outcrop, eyes now trained on her weapons at the edge of the water. Soundlessly, she surfaced and arm and wrapped her hand around the hilt of her sword.

                Another snap: pebbles.

                A whisper. “Mahariel?”

                The breath rushed from Mahariel’s lungs as she dropped her weapon and waded into the open. Tamlen stood by the bank, still in his breastplate. Once his eyes landed on her, his hand dropped from the hilt of his sword. His mouth opened, obviously meaning to tell her something. Yet he remained quiet.

                Mahariel smiled up at him. “Did you lose something? Your thoughts, maybe.”

                Tamlen stared at her a while, unblinking, then frowned at her. He sat by the pile of Mahariel’s belongings, back against the outcrop, legs stretched forward – one over the other. He turned his face upward, the silver light of Satina in his eyes.

                “What’s wrong?” His sombre profile was unlike him.

                His chest rose as he took a full breath. “I have to tell you something. Actually, I have to ask you something.”

                Now? Mahariel wanted to ask. She was, after all, naked in a river which will grow colder as the night wore on. However there was softness in Tamlen’s voice that she did not want to break, as though a playful comment from her would send him darting back to camp like a distrustful deer. So she waded closer to the bank, warned Tamlen of her surfacing, and began drying herself. Her eyes were on Tamlen the whole time she patted water from her body. And he remained still the entire time, eyes closed to the sky.

                When Mahariel was fully dressed, her cloak around her shoulders to buffer her back from her damp hair, she sat shoulder to shoulder with Tamlen. His eyes opened, lading on her. They were sharp with certainty.

                “Do you still have feelings for Lukas?” Voice almost a whisper, words steady as a rock.

                Mahariel stared, lips parted in surprise. Never had Tamlen directly spoken of Lukas; in the few occasions that the mage was brought up, the latter was always referred to as _him_ or _the shem._ Now the avvar’s name fell easier from Tamlen’s lips than it did landing on Mahariel’s ears. And despite the frown that creased Tamlen’s brows, there was no anger in the tight line of his lips. There was only the undercurrent decision in his eyes that made it impossible for Mahariel to look away.

                “Are you still fond of him?” he asked, pointing at Mahariel’s neck.

                Her hand, familiar as it was with the motion, wrapped around the vial pressed against her chest. At once she regretted the reaction; it felt like a confession of a crime.  “Yes.” Then louder and with more certainty, “I will always be fond of him.”

                Now Tamlen dropped his eyes on his lap, where his hands were clasped. “Even if you might never see him again?”

                Was that a pout in his voice? Mahariel leaned her shoulders on his. “I truly consider him a friend, Tamlen. And I miss him. But I didn’t plan- think to pursue-” Mahariel took a deep breath, head leaning on the outcrop. “He and I knew that we had a limited time.”

                Somewhere across the river an owl hooted. Tamlen didn’t even glance up from his hands. Concern began to push Mahariel into outright asking what Tamlen really wanted to say. Instead of acting on it, she distracted herself by dry combing her hair with her fingers. She managed to get a few of the tangles out before Tamlen looked at her.

                Through gritted teeth he asked, “If he had asked you to stay-”

                “No.” Mahariel rose to her knees in front of Tamlen, gripped his shoulders. “I don’t know where your thoughts are headed, but believe me when I say that there is nothing that will make me leave the clan. How could I leave my friends and family? My life?” She saw herself alone in a grassy field, mountains on her flanks, blue clouds above, and rolling hills ahead. It was beautiful, and hauntingly silent.

                Tamlen eased her hands off his shoulders, interlocked his fingers with hers. “You left once.”

                “Temporarily.”

                “Indefinitely.” A smile. “Were it not for the Chasind, you’d still be frolicking in the Wilds.”

                Mahariel sat back on the ground, leaned a shoulder on the outcrop. “I’m back now.”

                The smile faded from Tamlen’s face again, though it did not leave him as sombre as before. If anything he looked ready to jump into the frigid river. “I want your permission.”

                Mahariel kept her face blank, even though her eyes fought to give Tamlen a side-eye. There were not many things he needed her approval for. Besides, Tamlen had no qualms ignoring what is and what isn’t allowed. “What for?”

                He took a breath. “For me to court you.”

                Silence. Behind Mahariel the river rushed its way toward the sea yet it was mute. Blond fringes fluttered over Tamlen’s forehead yet the air grew stale in Mahariel's lungs. Tamlen moved to cup her cheek but Mahariel leaned away. Tamlen’s brow drew together, his jaw snapped shut.

                “What?” Mahariel managed a whisper.

                The muscles in his jaw writhed; his eyes watched the vial pendant – the gift from Lukas – swinging from its leather cord around her neck. “You were right: no one will ever be good enough. But I want to try.”

                “I don’t like this joke.” Her voice scratched at her throat.

                Tamlen’s hands tightened around hers. “It’s not. I’m serious, Vie. I want to be by your side for as long as I can. Give me a chance to earn…Vie? Oh no, I didn’t mean…” He let go of her hands. Then they were on her face, thumbs swiping her cheeks and beneath her eyes. “If you’d rather have me not speak of this ever again, just say the word. Creators, I’d rather that than making you cry.”

                “I’m not crying,” Mahariel said. She pressed the pad of her fingers to her eyes and blinked as they came away wet.

                His hands rubbed up and down her arms. “Are you alright?”

                Mahariel thought about that. She felt like a kettle was screaming inside her stomach, and she could not tell where her legs and arms were. She also had the urge to get up and run non-stop back to the main camp and sit Merrill on her cot for a long talk. But all she did was nod, then allowed her body to fall forward. Tamlen caught her instantly, tucked her head under his chin and held her firmly. Pressed against his chest, Mahariel felt his heart even through the breastplate and was glad that it beat just as erratically as hers.

                “Tamlen?”

                “I’m here.”

                “Do you mean everything you said?”

                “I do.” No hesitation.

                “Good.” Feeling returned to Mahariel’s arms and she found them wrapped around Tamlen’s waist.


	27. A Wedding and Two Funerals

Mahariel trialed a finger along the vines embossed on her sword’s scabbard, smooth and fine as they swirled up to the buckles that kept the dar’misaan locked in place. Above her, birds chirruped as the rays of sun began to yellow the leaves of the trees. Under her, the grass laid flat, retaining the impression of her outstretched legs despite folding them a dozen sighs ago. Stretching her arms above her head Mahariel arched her spine, finally letting out a yawn.

                Then everything went black. Warm fingers folded over her eyes, long and calloused; their edges rimmed red by sunlight. Mahariel closed her eyes, smiling as her lashes brushed the palms holding her head against a solid chest, from which she felt the beginnings of a chuckle.

                “Good morning, Tamlen.”

                “Tamlen?” A reedy voice by her ear.  “Who’s this Tamlen?”

                Laughing, Mahariel reached up to pinch his cheeks. “The man who sounds like he’d been kicked in the balls.”    

                The hands lifted from her eyes and caught her wrists. Tamlen leaned forward as he wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. He reached for her sword, set it on the ground, and pulled Mahariel closer until she could feel the rise and fall of his chest on her back.

                “Now I understand why Larea hates it when you read to her.”

                Tamlen made a show of harrumphing. “Well, if she hates my voices that much she should read herself to sleep then.”

                Mahariel slapped his knee, making him jerk in reflex. “Well, I for one would like it if you sang me a lullaby.”

                The smile grew on her face as Tamlen tightened his arms around her. She felt his breath stir the tendrils that escaped her braid, cool against the beads of sweat trickling down her nape. Mahariel twisted around to get a good look at him. “What is it?”

                Tamlen opened his mouth, stared at her, and then pressed his lips shut. He shook his head as he leaned in to whisper, “Nothing. It’s not a talk appropriate for this early in the morning.”

                Heat rushed to Mahariel’s face and she quickly put her back to Tamlen once more before her redness showed. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths to ease the thudding in her chest. “So, why are you awake this early anyway? Aren’t you supposed to patrol tonight?”

                He pulled away, a small frown forming on his brow. “Master Namassa didn’t tell you?”

                Mahariel untangled herself from Tamlen’s arms, turning to face him completely. After a moment of studying his face, she said, “She told you to train with me. Again.”

                Tamlen shrugged. “I tried to ask her, but she wouldn’t tell me why she couldn’t come.”

                Murmurs drifted from the camp as people stirred out of their tents and aravels. A line of hunters already trickled toward the training grounds, stretching and slapping each other on the back. Mahariel caught Junar’s eye as the latter slapped Radhan with his shirt and she waved her arm in greeting. The laughter dissolved from Junar’s face despite the hand he lifted in reply. He then slung his arm around Radhan and steered them between racks of practice swords. Mahariel let her hand plop back on her lap.

                “Huh,” Tamlen said, looking between Junar’s back and Mahariel’s face. “I take it you’re no longer in the mood to train.”

                She plucked her swords from the grass, rose to her feet, and began marching toward her mentor’s tent. “I don’t understand her,” she said when she heard Tamlen’s footsteps following her. “She chewed me whole when I avoided training, but now she doesn’t show for three days and she can’t even tell me why.”

                Just as they passed Hahren Paivel gathering the children around the tables, Tamlen took her hand and spun her around. “So what are you going to do exactly, after you barge into her tent?”

                Mahariel raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to ask her why she’s not training me like she’s supposed to.”

                 “And what if she’s not in her tent? Or-” He raised both eyebrows “-what if someone else is inside the tent with her?”

                A smile sparked in his eyes, rooting Mahariel in place. She tried not to imagine the situation Tamlen offered her; not only did the image make her lose the breakfast she hadn’t eaten yet, it was also impossible to picture the head hunter intimately involved with anyone. She didn’t seem to be especially close with anyone in the clan, nor did she mention or show a hint of interest in anything romantic.

                “You’re joking,” Mahariel finally decided.

                Tamlen threw his head back in laughter. “That took you a while.” He squeezed her hand and pulled her toward one of the tables. They settled shoulder to shoulder on a bench and watched Hahren Paivel start the day’s lesson while debating whether they should do Mahariel’s training routine or not.

                When a white pillar of smoke began to rise from the cooking pit, the children - led by Larea - clambered down from the benches and ran for food. Tamlen chuckled. “That was you ten years ago.”

                Mahariel elbowed his ribs.

                “That,” he gasped, rubbing his side, “was uncalled for.”

                “You leave your left side open.” She smirked. “As always.”

                Groaning, Tamlen laid his head on her shoulder. He walked his fingers down Mahariel’s forearm, crisscrossing the laces of her armbrace until his hand finally arrived in hers.  “You know,” he said after a while, voice low. “There is a rumour about Elder Cygan.”

                “I haven’t heard any,” Mahariel whispered back.

                “That’s because you refuse to hear gossip about your mentor.”

                Mahariel tilted her head to peer at Tamlen, caution squaring her shoulders. “What does this have to do with Namassa?”

                A pause. Then, “They are to be bonded.” Tamlen gave her hand a squeeze, and Mahariel almost swallowed her tongue.

                The clangs of pots, thuds of arrows, the carefree laughter of the morning, and the dampness of the wooden bench – they all fell away as every nerve in Mahariel’s body focused on the heat around her right hand and the soft blond hair brushing against her cheek. Her pulse bounced at the base of her throat, spurred by the rush of blood to her face.

                “Where did you hear this from?” Her voice was more air than words.

                Tamlen shrugged. “Merrill.”

                Mahariel thought back to the two figures she saw holding hands outside the Keeper’s aravel weeks ago – one in full armour, one in a blue jerkin. She sighed, her body leaning into Tamlen. “She could have told me.”

                “Merrill or master Namassa?”

                “Both. Either.” Her eyes scanned the increasing crowd milling toward the cooking pit. “I hardly see the two anymore.”

                Tamlen lifted his head from her shoulders, turning his body to face her. “You’ll see them soon. If there is to be a bonding ceremony, then you’ll see both at the feast; unless I managed to get you all to myself.”

                Before Mahariel could say anything, he raised her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles, silencing her with a shiver up her arm. She restrained her smile well until he winked at her.

                “Well!”

                Mahariel and Tamlen jumped. An arm draped over Mahariel’s shoulder, and she assumed its pair draped over Tamlen’s.

                “Aren’t you two a sweet sight.”

                Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, Mahariel leaned into Fenarel’s hug. “Welcome back, lethallin.”

                He kissed the top of her head. “It’s good to be back. With a buck, no less.”

                “Uh-huh,” Tamlen said, ducking under Fenarel’s arm. “Can you leave now?”

                A grin broke on Fenarel’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop interrupting. Oh! But I do have a message for you, Mahariel.”

                She craned her neck to look up at Fenarel, frowning. “From?”

                “I just finished reporting to the Keeper and bumped into Ashalle on my way out. They want to talk to you.”

                Mahariel looked to Tamlen, who shrugged, then back to Fenarel - who also shrugged. “Did they look angry?”

                “Nervous, more like,” Fenarel said, taking a seat across Tamlen. “You should go; I’ll keep your sweetheart company.”

                Mahariel lunged to flick his ear but he leaned out of reach, laughing. Tamlen squeezed her hand one more time as he promised to punch Fenarel for her.

 

 

Long before Mahariel neared the Keeper’s door she heard the rising tone of the Keeper’s displeasure through the wide open windows of the aravel. With the window just above Mahariel’s head, she could make out Ashalle’s salt and pepper crown. She was saying something, voice too low to cross the sill. And when Mahareil knocked on the door, the conversation within stopped entirely. Not a good sign. Still, at the Keeper’s invitation, Mahariel stood in front of the Keeper’s table; she didn’t dare to sit, not while Ashalle leaned over the desk, fists on the smooth wood. She kept her silence, hands clasped behind her, eyes on a leaf-shaped shield mounted on the back wall. Should the worst scenario happen, she could leap through the window to escape.

                The Keeper sighed. Ashalle withdrew from the table. All was right in the world again.

                “Mahariel,” Keeper Marethari said. The circles she massaged on her temple told Mahariel that she had just made the Keeper’s day more complicated.

                “You needed to speak with me, Keeper?”

                The Keeper straightened in her chair as she looked Mahariel in the eyes. “You wish to know what happened to your parents.”

                There was no question in her words, only a hint of warning. Mahariel had wanted to know more about her parents since she was a child, since she saw Fenarel and Tamlen play swords with their fathers while she hacked at imaginary enemies. But the topic had always soured whatever good cheer was in the room. Even now as Ashalle slumped into a chair, the memory pressed the Keeper’s lips into a hard line.

                “I know I made a promise,” Ashalle said, hands calling for Mahariel to take the seat across her.  “And I will keep it. But we need you to know that what happened to your parents is a tragic history you don’t need to relive.”

                Shaking her head, Mahariel moved to the window, planted her elbows on the sill and leaned out to catch the light breeze. “Why are you trying to scare me? What is it that you don’t want me to know?”

                “We are not trying to scare you, Mahariel.” The Keeper’s voice filled the room. “But old wounds are best let alone.”

                “Da’mis.” Ashalle made a half move to rise from her chair, but something made her think better of it and she settled on pressing the creases out of her skirt. “The clan decided not to discuss this around you; we didn’t want your heart poisoned with sadness.”

                A laugh escaped Mahariel’s gritted teeth. What the clan did was to simply replace one sadness for another, the difference being Mahariel did not know the exact reason for her grief. “Will you tell me the whole story now?”

                The Keeper and Ashalle shared a look. Then, with a nod from Keeper Marethari, Ashalle began: “As you are aware, your mother was a hunter and your father was the Keeper before Marethari. Your mother was from another clan and her Elders did not approve of the match.”

                Mahariel pushed off from the window at that. “What? Which clan? Why not?”

                “Tillahnnen.” Almost a whisper from the Keeper.

                “If Dihari were to bond with your father, Tillahnnen would lose their finest hunter; and your father, powerful and cunning though he may be, held ideals different from their clan. They had to meet in secret during the arlathvhen wherein they first saw each other, and when the time came for the clans to part-”

                “Sabrae came home with one more hunter.”

                Keeper Marethari huffed. “Threads of messages between our clans could wrap the coast of Ferelden. It was only because Theleon agreed to transfer the safekeeping of Falon’Din’s Wings to clan Tillahnnen that grudges were not held against us.”

                “Falon’Din’s Wings?” The name entered un-greeted in Mahariel’s mind.

                “A lacework of halla horn carved into the image of the owl, Falon’Din’s servant and our guide through the Veil.” Keeper Marethari leaned back on her seat, arms hung on the rests. Her eyes moved underneath their lids as though she still saw the artifact.

                “And how is it that the strongest mage and the best hunter in the clan were killed in some forest?” This directed to Ashalle, delivered over Mahariel’s shoulder as her father’s face shimmered in front of her eyes with the rising heat of the day. He would have been smiling as he gave away a precious relic if it meant he could be with the woman he loved. Or at least that was what Mahariel saw from the painting she kept locked inside her chest.

                As the silence settled like a fourth person Mahariel finally faced Ashalle and the Keeper. “How did they die?”

                A look between the two women. Then, from Ashalle: “Please sit, Vie.”

                Mahariel took the two steps that brought her hip against the armrest of the chair Ashalle indicated. The way they looked at her – careful and calculated, as if she would bolt at the slightest sound – deterred her from getting closer to them. “How?”

                With a nod and a sigh, Ashalle continued. “Your parents snuck away from time to time; even after the issues with Dihari’s clan were settled a few of our Elders did not appreciate the problems your parents had stirred.” Ashalle took a deep breath, running her palms on her lap. Her eyes shone more than usual. “One day, they were on a stroll in the forest.” Another deep breath, coupled with blinking.

                Mahariel gripped the back of the chair, fighting the passage of ghostly ants scuttling down her back. Meanwhile the Keeper’s eyes bored holes on her desk, her breathing deep and slow.

                Ashalle cleared her throat. “That day, bandits caught them alone. Your father was killed.”

                Mist swelled in Mahariel’s eyes, though whether born from grief or anger she couldn’t decide. “Bandits. Humans murdered my parents?” The claim went down her throat as smooth as a hook-briar would. It was not that Mahariel thought humans were incapable of such criminality, but she had thought - assumed – that her parents, the former Keeper and the best hunter, would not be bested by mere bandits.

                “Humans, and city elves,” Ashalle said.

                Purple lights crackled behind Mahariel’s eyes; gone in a blink. She felt her lips move but she didn’t hear her words. Hands enveloped the balled fist at Mahariel’s side, making her snap her eyes back to Ashalle.

                “No,” This from the Keeper, regret thick in the tremble of her voice. “There was no ambush. I’m afraid it was poor luck; A tragic coincidence that crossed your parents’ path with the bandits’.”

                “But your mother escaped da’mis.” Ashalle again, voice more insistent, her hands tightening around Mahariel’s fist. “Thanks to your father, you and your mother survived. Your mother held long enough to life to give birth to you.”

                Mahariel’s hand was completely numb. Perhaps it was Ashalle’s grip that cut off her blood circulation; Mahariel wanted it to be the case. But as icy dread leached the warm blood in her veins she realized the truth. “I thought they died together. She abandoned me.”

                Tears streaked past Ashalle’ cheeks as though she were the one left behind by her only family. “Dihari was wracked with grief. One night, she…walked out into the moonlight and never returned. She just could not carry on without Theleon.”

                Stomach churning, Mahariel wrenched her hand free and once again leaned out the window. The camp was in full motion now, loud with repairs and bustling with chores. People she had known her whole life – friends and teachers, aunts and uncles in every way but blood – went about their routines. How many of them knew the story of her parents? Who among them knew that her mother preferred death over taking care of her daughter? Namassa came to Mahariel’s mind, and master Hershel. Elder Cygan. They knew; they were close friends with her parents. “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of this.”

                A creak of wood, followed by the Keeper’s voice. “Our people live with much sorrow, Mahariel. It seemed right to not dwell on it.”

                Mahariel rounded on her. “I mourned her! I chose to follow Andruil’s way because she did. I could never be Keeper like my father, but I thought I’d be a hunter like my mother. Now I realize she doesn’t deserve the respect I had given her.”

                Her jaw clamped shut as the last word flew past her lips. Ashalle was on her feet, arms wide and ready to take her ward into her arms. Mahariel sidestepped and marched out the door.

 

She would have marched beyond the borders of their camp were it not for the tall figure who stepped into her path just as she cleared the second ring of aravels that enclosed the camp.

                “I thought I had instructed-” The voice cut itself off.

                Mahariel stared hard at her mentor in her leather armour. Slowly, Namassa’s arms uncrossed from her chest and hung at her side.

                “What happened, da’len?”

                More than a year ago, deep within the Korcari Wilds, Namassa had told Mahariel that her mother would have been proud that her daughter knew what she wanted and chased after it. Her chest swelled with pride then. Now, she was unable to merge the new image she had of her mother and the Dihari that Namassa knew.

                “Why would she leave?” Mahariel found herself asking. “Why abandon me?”

                Namassa frowned, then understanding smoothed her face just as quick. “They told you everything?”

                Mahariel nodded despite her doubt that the Keeper and Ashalle had indeed told her everything.

                Namassa stalked toward a wagon and leant her back to it. “Those bandits took Theleon from her. From the clan. From me. He was the center of our clan, Mahariel, then he was just gone. All those years together, all those talk of the future, gone. Picked clean and scattered on the bloody forest floor.”

                She slammed a fist against the wagon and Mahariel jumped. Looking at her mentor - face tight around a grimace, hands trembling - another realization dawned on Mahariel. “That’s why you hate city elves so much.”

                Namassa spat. “They are worse than shemlen. They spill the blood we share and dine with those who shackled our ancestors.”

                “Did you find the bandits?”

                Namassa looked away.

                With a nod Mahariel left her mentor with the memories.

 

The sun was at its highest, directly over Mahariel’s head, when Tamlen found her by the gully long dried of its stream. He shoved two sticks of tamarind candies under her nose as he sat among the grey jagged rocks.

                Mahariel took the sour treats but made no attempt to open the bright orange wrapping. “You’ve heard?”

                Tamlen wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer to his side. “Only that you were distraught.  But I won’t ask if you don’t wish to talk about it.”

                After a while Mahariel finally peeled one of the candies and bit into the sugar-coated rolls. “Are these the ones you made?”

                “Are they any good?”

                Mahariel took another bite, spat a seed down the rocky ravine, and nodded. Tamlen squeezed her closer and beamed. “Then, yes, I made them.”

                Nestling into Tamlen’s side, Mahariel felt the filling and emptying of his lungs, hypnotic in its steady rhythm. In time she found herself taking a breath when he did and releasing with him. Her eyes grew heavier as the wind grew warmer, but she fought the urge to nap.

                “Did Ashalle send you?” she asked finally. Her question answered immediately with the tightening of Tamlen’s body. “What did she say?”

                A long pause. Tamlen began rummaging through the pouch at his belt until he caught what he was looking for: a key. Small and bronze. He dropped in onto Mahariel’s palm. “It opens a chest in the storage aravel. Ashalle said it was your mother’s, and it’s yours now if you want it.”      

                Mahariel made to return the key to Tamlen but he closed her fingers around the damned thing. “I’m not sure I want it.”

                 “Mahariel-” he turned until they were knee-to-knee “-this is your chance to get to know your parents. You’ve wanted that since you were - well, maybe things have changed. But if not for sentiment or even for heritage, won’t you at least open the box out of curiosity?”

                Her lips twisted around another seed. “What’s in the chest?”

                Tamlen shrugged. “A gift. Something that belonged to your father.”

                Thinking of the heirloom as something that belonged to her father, the man who sacrificed himself for the escape of his wife and unborn daughter, the bitterness of Mahariel’s abandonment faded somewhat. What kind of man was Theleon Mahariel? What was it about him that made her mother unwilling to live without him? Why did her mother choose to follow him to the grave instead of raising his only child? The key grew warm within Mahariel’s hand as if generating its own heat rather than taking from the skin that held it.

                She could chuck the thing into the air, loose it in the crevices of the gully, and be done with the parents that she never knew. Yet she sat there next to Tamlen, knuckles white as her fingers pressed the bronze into the flesh of her palm and thinking of the young happy couple smiling at her through a painting.


	28. Walking Out Into the Moonlight

Ferelden was much more dazzling near the death of the year; or at least it was when the clouds were far to the south and the sun coaxed the yellows and oranges and reds from the forests that dip and rise along the valleys. In the valley, amid the gold wheat, Mahariel imagined she was inside a painting – quiet, languid, unmoving. The vast field stretched all around her, ignorant of the caravan ploughing across north and a little west.  It shouldn’t be long before the clan would meet the North Road, and after that the coastlands.

                Midway into the horizon, the two greasy stains in the sky that drew Mahariel east of the caravan finally revealed themselves to be columns of smoke. Thick grey coils which coaxed out a little more blue from the pale sky. Either a village had burned down, or the humans have lit pyres for the festival: All Soul’s Day. Mahariel could make out the roofs of simple houses and the call of the occasional cow. Most of the village seemed to congregate in a dark mass around the burning pyre, others trickled farther into the outskirts of the town with their heads bowed.

                The longer Mahariel watched, the heavier the silver pendant pressed down on her chest. 

 

It was just before noon when the last of the aravels bunched around the grounds flattened by the previous wagons, their green sails and masts now lowered. As the rear of the caravan prepared to anchor themselves, Mahariel perched atop one of the storage aravels, bow and quiver by her side. Orders and questions volleyed among the clan as wares were unpacked, tables and chairs unfolded. A gauzy white train of silk was unrolled from a chest by Keeper Marethari and Merrill. Chin on her palm, Mahariel watched as the Keeper pointed at the head of the camp, drawing arches in the air with her hands while Merrill clapped in glee.

                Mahariel looked again at the faint smoke to the east. Flat as the land was, she doubted that the clan’s passing had been completely missed by the human village, not with the vibrant green of their sails against the muted yellow of wheat. But the lack of message from Tamlen and the others was a good sign – the shemlen had not turned their attention to the clan. Mahariel hoped that it would hold true at nightfall, when Sabrae clan held their own festivities.

She awoke to golden bulbs reaching for purple sky. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt across her stomach, listening for that crackle of dry grass which jolted her from sleep. It came again, soft and crisp, from her left. From camp. Mahariel left her blade in its sheath and let the visitor approach.

                They arrived with a kick to Mahariel’s shin followed by apologies. Mahariel sat up then, came face to face with heavy green skirts embroidered with white birds swirling in and out of the pleats.

                “Goodness! It’s you!”

                Leaning back on her palms, Mahariel raised her eyebrows partly in amusement, partly in confusion. “Would you not have apologized if hadn’t been me, Merrill?”

                “Oh, of course I would. I just thought you were…well something else.” She crouched down, tucking her dress behind her knees as she leveled with Mahariel’s eyes. “You’ve been gone a while. It’s starting soon…and you’re not dressed yet.”

                Mahariel shrugged, draped her arms over her knees. The pendant pressed even harder on her chest, warm from her skin. “I prefer sleep at the moment.”

                Merrill swept her wide eyes across the gloom of the field. “Here?”

                “It is quiet.”

                The fires from camp blazed and sparked one of Merrill’s eyes as she tilted her head in examination. Mahariel saw the questions inside her, the reassurances, and the request to join the bonding ceremony. Before her friend could give voice to any of it Mahariel sprawled back onto the stalks she had flattened.

                “Lethallan.”

                A plea. For Mahariel to stop sulking? For her to talk about what happened in the Keeper’s aravel? For her to eat, drink, and dance even if all she wanted was to throw and break things instead?

                “Lethallan, we-”

                “I’ll be fine, Merrill. I just need time for myself.”

                Merrill sat there a while. Mahariel felt her eyes on her, perhaps waiting to see something on her face. But Mahariel kept her face clear as the night sky, her breathing slow and steady as the oncoming autumn chill. Eventually Merrill departed with one squeeze for Mahariel’s hand.

 

Songs and cheers erupted along with the sparks of bonfire by the time night truly settled in. Grumbles started in Mahariel’s stomach but she paid them no mind. Instead she basked under furs she wrapped herself in; too warm, too comfortable to leave. Her eyes were ready to close once again when her second visitor barrelled into her legs and toppled over her.

                Arm to throat and a twist and Mahariel found herself pinning Junar. He grinned up at her, glazy-eyed.

                “Hello.”

                Mahariel rolled off of him and noticed the waterskin in his grip. She was sure that it held something aside from water. “You shouldn’t stray.” Junar sat up, uncorked his drink. Mahariel grabbed it before he could put it to his lips. “You shouldn’t have drank this much.”

                “Oh please.” Junar tried to snatch his drink back but missed a foot. His fingers grabbed at empty air for a while before he gave up and pitched face first into the ground. “Let me have this one thing, Mahariel. Just the one.”

                His left cheek mushed against his nose, giving a slur to his words. Despite the alcohol in his gaze, he found Mahariel’s face and managed to hold her eyes.

                “Just the one?” Mahariel asked.

                Junar groaned as he shifted on his back. He reached out with a dizzy hand and took Mahariel’s right hand, fingertips caressing below the knuckle of her ring finger. Mahariel’s breath left in a huff, but she didn’t pull away.

                “For a while there,” Junar continued, “thought I had a chance. Everyone knew how it’ll end. But then…that happened! And I was foolish…hoped. Idiot. He has his pelt. And I? I can’t offer you anything.” His hand fell away with a soft thump.

                Just like that he was asleep.  Mahariel downed two gulps from the waterskin, teeth gritted against the burn down her throat. Aside from the fact that Junar would likely forget about his untimely confession, the worst thing hearing it was that Mahariel could not entirely deny that she had suspicions. She could not even remember if she merely ignored them, or played along. Yes she had kissed him on cheek after he gave her her first tattoo. But had she meant it to be innocent or flirtatious? After another swig from the waterskin Mahariel cupped her hand around her mouth and gave two sharp whistles.  She rolled out of her furs and draped them over Junar instead. Within a minute two figures ran between the wagons, silhouetted by the ceremonial fire. Tamlen reached them first, sword drawn, eyes on Mahariel.

                “Are you alright?” His eyes scanned her, glowing with the firelight.

                Fenarel knelt by Junar and hovered a hand over his face. “Asleep. Or unconscious.”

                Two pairs of eyes fleeted between Mahariel and Junar, and the former found that she could not meet Tamlen’s gaze. “He stumbled into me. He’d been drinking.” She raised the waterskin. Then as an afterthought, added. “I drank a little myself.”

                Tamlen sighed. He hunched down to help Fenarel lift Junar to his feet. As the two men slung an arm over their shoulders Mahariel took to gathering the blankets and trailed after them. Junar’s touch on the silver horns wrapped around her finger tingled, as if the tattoo had reversed its healing and came undone along with its artist’s confessions. With a thumb, Mahariel popped the cork from the waterskin and took another gulp.

 

Namassa and Elder Cygan were leading the dance around the fire just as Mahariel, Fenarel, and Tamlen had deposited Junar into his tent. Those disinclined to join the dance - those with creaky bones or wobbling legs, young Haria with her shy glances for Kallian, Keeper Marethari leaning back in her seat – clapped to flutes and lutes instead, adding their voices to Merrill’s lyrics.

                Tamlen nudged his shoulder against Mahariel’s. “Dance with me?”

                Fenarel slapped them on their backs then jogged to the ring of dancers who absorbed him into their spinning. Mahariel clutched the blankets closer. “I’d rather get to bed.”

                “Then I’ll walk you there.”

                Before Mahariel could protest Tamlen took her hand and pulled her along the edge of the festivities, across dimly lit grounds, and into the aravel. It was only when the door shut behind Mahariel did Tamlen face her, arms crossed.

                “What did the Keeper and Ashalle tell you?” His frown was as deep as it has always been, though his blue eyes, shining from the lanterns outside, held her face softer than feathers.

                Mahariel stared up at him, mouth open yet silent. The weight on her chest already began to lose its grip, preparing to be caught by Tamlen. Mahariel pushed past him, dropped the blankets on floor, then slipped under the bunched fabric. As she threw her head back onto her cot and closed her eyes Tamlen rustled in after her. His thigh pressed against hers, warm and firm. Mahariel opened her eyes and looked at him then. He was not in his armour. How ironic it was that she only noticed his white shirt, high in the collar, when the room was more shadows than light. How unfitting for her as a hunter to have missed such a glaring fact.

                Tamlen turned his face to her. The firestone lanterns outside infused more blue into his eyes, making them into precious gems inlaid on imperial crowns. Or family heirlooms.  Mahariel loosed the ties of her leather bodice. Tamlen’s eyes popped wide, blood rushing up his neck. With a smirk, Mahariel reached under her collar and fished the silver pendant her mother had left her. The oval locket twirled between them, its two sapphires gleamed from the eye sockets of an engraved halla. Tamlen tracked its movement with confusion and a hint of disappointment on the press of his mouth.

                “I see you’ve taken to wearing it.” His eyes flicked lower. “Under your shirt. Are your mother’s dar’misu under there as well?”

                Mahariel cupped the locket into a hand, rolling her eyes. “Like I said, I am not touching those.”

                “And why is that?” The jest left his voice.

                In the half-light, with smoke on Tamlen’s skin and the firestone in his eyes, the words flowed from Mahariel’s lips and into the night, taking with them the thorns that she had swallowed days ago. The halla in her hand watched her with fractured light; perhaps her father saw through it from his place in the Beyond. Perhaps Mahariel’s parents were listening, learning about her resentment at being abandoned. When at last the truth hung in the air Tamlen folded his hands around one of Mahariel’s.

                “I’m sorry, lethallan.” He kissed her temple. “I’m unsure what to say, but if you need anything, I’m here.”

                Mahariel drew away from him, looked him in the eye. “If I had known all this time that humans murdered my father, would I still have helped those human brothers years ago?”

                “Yes.” He said it without blinking, without pause.

                The night when the bandits had caught Mahariel she had felt for the elvhen mage that attacked her. Guilty that she could not help her people within the shemlen cities. Within the canvas of shadows the man’s face flashed before her, eyes crackling with violet energy. At his side was the human brute, red to his elbows. And at their feet, her father’s throat gurgled blood.

                “Would I have killed the bandits?” A whisper.

                “Every last one.” This, a ringing note.


	29. New Year, New Beginnings

_If you lost one of your senses, which one would you give up?_ Tamlen had asked the question years ago around a puddle of halla urine which he, Fenarel, and Mahariel dropped mint candies into. The two boys crouched over it, sticks in hand ready to stir the pool, while Mahariel remained a few paces further back.

                “Did I lose it or gave it up?” Fenarel fired back, frowning at the foam forming on the puddle’s surface. A bubble burst, almost splashing his face. He scrunched his nose. “Okay, perhaps smell.”

                “And you, lethallan?” Tamlen pointed his stick at her, which she narrowed her eyes at.

                Mahariel dropped another piece of candy; a ring of foam sizzled where it disappeared. “I don’t want to lose any of them.”

                More stick waving. “But what if you absolutely have to?”

                There were three more of the hard candies in her palm and Mahariel saw them flying to hit Tamlen between the eyes.  Instead of acting on her imagination she tossed the last balls into the puddle. Fenarel leapt back with a shout, arms rose in front of his face for protection; and Tamlen, slightly slower than his older friend, only managed to clear out of the puddle’s range _after_ his toes were already glistening with the liquid. His jaw hung, eyes wide as he stared at his foot.

                Mahariel laughed then. “I don’t absolutely have to lose anything.” She turned on a heel and ran as Fenarel’s laughter and Tamlen’s footsteps gave chase.

 

The irony of the memory eased a laugh from Mahariel now as Tamlen’s arm on her waist guided her to some secret place he had promised she’d like. Pressed to his side as she was, each move of his body translated directly to her own; a nudge on her lower back and they angled left, a squeeze on her hand and she stepped higher to avoid whatever was in their way. A fan of his breath on the side of her face told her he was studying her face.

                “What’s that smile for? What is it?” His voice grazed the tip of her ear and crawled down the side of her neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps.

                “Which of your senses could you live without?”

                Grass scratched under their feet, the tips now clamoring around their shins almost in a plea to stop their ascent. Tamlen stirred her to the right, then as grass dwindled and the gravel gave way to unmoving stone under Mahariel’s feet, he said with a smile in his voice, “Taste, I think.”

                “Because you don’t need it in a hunt?”

                He chuckled. “Because I don’t need it in a hunt. You know, you never answered that question.”

                Mahariel gripped his hand tighter, maybe a little more than necessary. “I’d _hate_ to lose my sight.”

                Tamlen cleared his throat at that. “Yes, well, we’re almost there.”

                Mahariel rolled her eyes in spite of the blue sash tied around her head, despite that Tamlen could not see the gesture. “This better be worth it,” she added for his benefit.

                “It is. I promise.” He whispered the last part and his breath so close to her skin coaxed a gasp from her. “Easy. We’ll clear the gorge soon.”

                A gorge? She wanted to ask, but the blindfold distracted her. Rather, the lack of sight distracted her. More specifically the long fingers that gripped her waist, the heat flowing into her from a lean torso, the flex of muscle against her back as Tamlen led her here and there, distracted her. She might not know where they were, but she caught freshness in the air, something clean, tangled with the leather of armour and the flower in Tamlen’s skin. And then the wind stopped whistling and attempted to sweep them up instead. Their cloaks snapped as they fought to cling to their shoulders. Tamlen stepped closer and the wind calmed somewhat.

                “Are you ready?”

                Mahariel nodded. She felt his fingers slip under the silk as he untied the knots without so much as jerking Mahariel’s head or accidentally snagging her hair. Yet his breath stirred the loose fringes at her temple.

                “Still a mouth-breather, I hear.”

                He scoffed. Though the sash was untied he held it still over her eyes. “I outgrew the habit when you were still biting your nails. Besides, that’s not me.”

                One of his hands cupped Mahariel’s cheek, tilted her face upward.

                “I’m going to remove the blindfold, and I want you to keep looking at me.”

                Mahariel felt his words vibrate through his chest to hers more than she heard them – partially due to the snap of their clothes and the rushing of the wind, but mostly because he’d all but pressed himself against her. Mahariel nodded, agreed to his terms, and she wondered if her voice reached him the same way. Once the sash lifted from her eyes, Mahariel’s first instinct was to look around, which Tamlen knew, for he took the half-step that separated them so that not much could be seen beyond his shoulders other than the indigo sky framing his fluttering hair.

                She kept her eyes on the glow of his left eye, cast by the lantern at their feet. The light gilded the ridge of his cheekbone, the look lending him two years to his twenty-two. The curve of the vallaslin across his cheek curved at the tip of his lips. And there Mahariel’s eyes remained.

                “What-” she cleared her throat to get more voice as oppose to air “-why are we here?”

                “Like I said: to give you a present.” He looked over his shoulder at the sky now tinged with orange. “Come here.”

                Mahariel took his hands and kept her eyes on Tamlen as he walked backwards. The rush she heard as soon as they left the gorge grew louder, and she realized it had a rhythm to it – a constant rise and a fall, back and forth. Then the clean scent of the air made sense. Salt.

                “May I look now?”

                Tamlen hummed. “I supposed you’ve waited long enough. Besides, the sun has arrived.”

                He stepped aside, an arm sweeping forward in invitation. Still holding onto one of Tamlen’s hands Mahariel stepped loser to the edge of the cliff. No wonder her ears popped a number of times. It seemed as though she could touch the sky with one stretch of her arm. The sheer black rock of the cliff allowed no weed or moss to grow; and the closer Mahariel edged to the sheer drop the stone adapted a certain sheen, as though a thin layer of glass coated the jagged surface.

                Before Mahariel allowed her eyes to look down, she glanced at Tamlen. Her closest friend. Her childhood fancy. Her brother in arms. And now, the man vying for her affection. A huge grin gleamed on his face as his eyes scanned the horizon like he’d never seen it before. Mahariel followed his gaze, and the breeze finally snatched her breath.

                If someone had told her that this was the end of the world, Mahariel would have believed it. At the base of the cliff rocks dominated the stretch of land; first boulders tall as Tamlen, scattered and jagged like they were thrown over and broke on impact; as the land stretched further the boulders turned to rocks, then the rocks to smooth stones than could fit in a palm, then those turned to pebbles. Those ones glittered here in there in shades of pink and cream. Then at last, gravel. Gravel that was constantly sanded by the breathing of the sea. The waves broke into the shore, creating the rushing that Mahariel had mistaken for the wind. Beyond the white froth of the shallows, grey water ran west and east and north until it pressed itself to the sky.

                “I give you: The Waking Sea,” Tamlen said.

                “It’s…vast!” Mahariel laughed, her voice ringing across open air. “You can’t give me the sea!” He had though, in a way. And she loved it.

                Tamlen embraced her from behind, chin rested on her shoulder. He planted a kiss on her jaw. “I can and it’s yours.”

                Mahariel spun in his arms, her own wrapping around Tamlen’s neck as she lifted herself on her toes. “Have you gone down there?”

                A shake of his head, then a smile. “How about we take a closer look at your birthday present?”

 

A path little more than a goat trail cut the cliffside west of the gorge they had emerged from. The uneven trail lodged shards onto Mahariel’s feet. At a number of points, the path narrowed so much that they had to press their backs to wall for better balance against the wind; Tamlen had to hold his shield as they sidestepped lower and lower. At the end of the slow descent, knees shaky as her breath, Mahariel bolted toward the water.

                The rougher rocks poked and rolled under her feet yet she didn’t slow her pace. Not even when Tamlen called for her to wait for him. It was only when her heels crunched the pink stones did she stop and really looked at the ground.

                “Not stones.” She picked one of the pieces - dark pink with flecks of orange – and raised it over her head to show Tamlen. “They’re not rocks!”

                Tamlen tossed his shield onto the gravel as he neared her, hand already reaching for the item pinched between Mahariel’s thumb and forefinger. He raised it to the sunlight; it cast a crescent shadow over the bridge of his nose, darker than the fan of his lashes. “They’re shells. I’m certain of it.”

                Mahariel plucked the shell out of his hand, laid it in the middle of her palm. “Well, these are prettier than the ones we get from human markets.”

                They huddled over the single shard even though the whole shore was littered with hundreds of them. Pure white underneath, pink and orange outside; it would make a fine jewelry if it were whole. At the very least, it would look a fine collection. Mahariel looked up at Tamlen, a suggestion curling her lips. She froze.

                His eyes were already on her, more black than blue. If Mahariel tilted her head a touch higher the tips of their noses would surely brush. But if she tilted her head sideways a little-

                Mahariel gasped as she was pulled closer by Tamlen’s hand on her lower back. They were chest to chest now, the sharp draw of her breath calling him closer. A different rush filled Mahariel’s mind, although it felt as though the entire sea was crammed inside her skull and there it heaved to the beat of Tamlen’s pulse. This close, she saw his throat bob as he swallowed. He touched his free hand to her face, slow and warm. He ran his thumb on her bottom lip and Mahariel had to grip his arms to keep herself from licking her lips.

                “I want to kiss you.” It was as if all of Tamlen’s confidence had deserted his voice. His eyes flicked between her eyes and her lips.

                For many nights Mahariel had dreamt of this. The dreams, sweet and scalding as they were, left her tingling with anxiety the next morning; eagerness and nerves bundled so tightly into a ball in her gut that it had been distracting to look Tamlen in the eyes. She enjoyed those dreams, she must admit. She enjoyed them for what they were: a fantasy. Now she had a chance to make them real. Would everything change between them if they kissed? Would it be so bad if they did? What if they didn’t?

                Mahariel’s hand moved on its own. From its grip on Tamlen’s arm she traced her fingers down his cheek, along his jaw, to the point of his chin, and up to his lips. They were chapped from the brittle wind yet soft and warm. Sighing, Mahariel closed her eyes. Then his lips were on hers. There was salt in the kiss, brought by the sea air; the sweetness she tasted in her dreams lay deeper, and Mahariel did not hesitate to seek it. She let her hand tangle into Tamlen’s hair, let Tamlen pull her against him until it was hard to breathe.

                They parted winded, as if they had climbed the vertical cliff face instead of being locked where they stood. Tamlen’s eyes were the darkest they’ve ever been with the pupils having swallowed everything but a blue ring, and his breath rasped from parted lips. Mahariel shivered at that.

                “Was that strange?” Mahariel had to ask. She felt her eyes were wider than usual, her pulse too fast, her skin too warm, the gravel at her feet too soft, the sea behind her too far away.

                Tamlen shook his head, leaned his forehead against hers. He placed both hands on her waist and gave a little squeeze. “That was exactly what I wanted. Oh, and I change my answer.”

                “What?” Perhaps the kiss had sent Mahariel’s mind drifting into the sky.

                “My sense of taste,” Tamlen said, a lazy grin on his face. “I don’t want to lose it. I’ve found something useful for it.”

                Mahariel punched his stomach lightly even as his smile infected her. “What are you willing to lose then?”

                He cupped her face and drew her closer. “I don’t absolutely have to lose anything.”

 

The afternoon found them sneaking glances over the heads of new hunter trainees who were much too eager to wrap their hands on a bow. Renae, the older of the twins, was the only one of them calm enough to have been allowed to touch the limbs of a short bow before Mahariel indicated the sight window and the arrow shelf. Tamlen stood behind the children, an arm across his chest as he tapped his chin with his other hand. He appeared to be listening to the instructions on where and how to hold the bow, but Mahariel felt where his eyes truly were.

                When she set the bow down on the table in front of her she caught him staring at her mouth. She smiled.

                “And now,” Mahariel addressed the children. “If you all follow Tamlen, he will take you to master Illen to learn how the arrows are made.”

                The young ones began to rise, stretching their arms here and there or dusting the soil from their leggings. Yet Tamlen remained motionless, eyes still hooded, preoccupied with another of Mahariel’s smile. The children stared at him, some shuffled and spun around back to Mahariel for guidance. She took pity on their confused frowns and so she set two fingers against her lips and whistled. Tamlen’s head snapped up at that. He noticed the children, nodded once, then waved for them to follow him. He looked back once over his shoulder with a wink. Rather cocky of him considering Mahariel could see the redness of his nape all the way down to master Illen’s workshop.

 

Namassa joined Mahariel under the tarp of the armoury during the last presentations of the different apprenticeships for the children. She brought two mugs of apple juicer with her and handed one to Mahariel.

                Her mentor had…grown since she last talked to her. The cream robes she took to wearing in exchange for her armour stretched over her bust and it won’t be long before it stretched over her stomach as well. She would have to stop wearing her sword at her hip. In fact she should have started leaving her broadsword in Elder Cygan’s aravel a week ago.

                They sipped their drinks in silence a long while; the mentor watching over the children about to choose their craft, while the apprentice studied the former in her unusual state. In honesty, “unusual” was a kinder word Mahariel preferred to use. To see the head hunter of the clan out of her armour, in long robes that covered the swelling of her belly, raised the hair at the back of her neck surely as a caterpillar crawling on her bare skin would. Namassa seemed happy, however. In fact, she looked radiant basking in the life she now shared with Elder Cygan. And so Mahariel kept the questions locked behind pursed lips and the complaints crushed between clenched teeth. Her training will resume in earnest soon, Namassa had promised. Mahariel decided not to expect anything.

                “Varanar tells me the borders are quiet,” Namassa said, swirling her cup.

                “The human town lies in the lowlands, closer to the coast. Our aravels are hidden well enough by the cliff.”

                “Good.” She threw back her cup to finish the remainder of her drink.

                On the grounds the group of children broke into four, one fronted by Tamlen, the other by Variel, the third by Gilhan, and the last by Maren. Renae stuck with Tamlen while her twin, Larea, followed Variel. That was unexpected.

                “You’re old enough to choose a bondmate.”

                That too, was unexpected. Mahariel glanced at Namassa from the corner of her eye. “What brought this conversation upon me?”

                “You and Tamlen,” Namassa said as she absentmindedly placed a hand on her belly in a way that made Mahariel want to scoot farther from her mentor. “You are both adults, in your prime. And there is no other pair more capable to provide for each other than you two. We do not have many children, da’len. And fewer are born each year.”

                Nineteen. There were nineteen children out of the ninety-two clansmen of Sabrae. Of course, adolescents and young adults made most of the population, but none of those were in a hurry to build the next generation. Mahariel shook her head.

                “I have yet to get my vallaslin, hahren. Children are far from my mind.”

                A sharp inhale from Namassa. “There is also that. Are you even planning on getting your vallaslin? You have earned it twice over now.”

                Mahariel drained her drink, hissing as the liquid tingled in her throat. “Soon, hahren. In fact, I have an idea on which path to follow.”


	30. Second Bloom

Word around the campfire was that no one ever stormed out of the Keeper’s aravel without ending with their ears red and throbbing by nightfall. Yet Mahariel found herself slamming the door for the second time in three months, the sketches tucked under her arm as crinkled as her brow. The most immediate eyes followed her, blatant with their curiosity. She ignored them as she trudged back to the tent Tamlen and Fenarel shared.

                She froze as the tarp fluttered close behind her. Both Merrill and Fenarel sat crossed-legged on the rug between two foldable cots. Tamlen lounged on his bed, an arm under his head while his free hand propped a book on his chest.

                “You took a while,” Fenarel said, waving his gauntlets. “How did the talk go?”

                Tamlen sat up, chucked his book onto his pillow. He held a hand out for her even as a frown formed on his face. “Did she not allow it?”

                Shaking her head, Mahariel took his hand and nestled against his side. She felt his lips on her hair and the gesture convinced her muscles to relax. She let the parchment fall from her arms and onto the floor. Andruil’s bow first, the branches of Mythal second, the third a raven in flight for Dirthamen. The fourth page landed face down. Merrill reached for it as Mahariel drew up her feet.

                “I see,” Merrill said in a sigh. Her fingers followed the lines of her own vallaslin across her cheekbone. “When I said the Keeper allowed me some adjustments, I meant that I requested to follow the style preferred within birth clan. It’s not the vallaslin for Dirthamen that you know, but it is still his. But this-” she laid the page back on the ground, the sketch now facing the four of them “-this is unheard of.”

                Tamlen and Fenarel leaned forward at the same time; the latter’s eyebrows crept up to his hairline, while the former bit his lower lip to hold a grin.

                Fenarel opened his mouth but Tamlen raced his words. “It’s creative. Unorthodox. I like it.”

                Andruil’s arrow pointed upward as the shaft cut the middle of the design. Its bow, traditionally a bold arch over the eyebrows, stretched from the arrow like the arms of Mythal’s tree. Below the arrow’s shaft, where the chin would be, were the mirroring strokes depicting the tail of Dirthamen’s raven. The goddess of the hunt, the all-mother, and the god of knowledge all in one vallaslin.

                Mahariel pushed off from Tamlen’s chest, her jaw once again clenched. “Well, the Keeper says I’m not allowed to ‘chop the symbols about and sew them together willy nilly’.”

                A chuckle from Fenarel. “It is not as though you didn’t know this before you went to speak with her. Besides, I thought you were decided on Andruil?”

                She wasn’t really. “I said I would _settle_ on Andruil, if all else failed.”

                “Oh, but I thought Dirthamen suits you best, Mahariel.” Merrill pointed at her vallaslin again. “You’re always eager to learn from my notes. Even if I’m not supposed to show them to you; or maybe it’s especially because of that.”

                It was true, so Mahariel kept her mouth shut. She looked at Tamlen, who edged away from her with a slow, “What?”

                “Any suggestions?” Mahariel kept her face blank. In the spirit of not denying truths, Mahariel admitted to herself that she liked to see Tamlen squirm a little. Of late, he progressively managed to render her speechless with a single touch, or with whispered words; and the thrills she received from those moments were too alike to the seconds before her arrow flies flee. And if she were to take such doses of adrenaline so frequently, she feared she would rush something she would rather let develop on its own. So she shook Tamlen’s confidence once in a while for buffer and for amusement. A surprise, really, that it still affected him.

                His eyes were narrowed on her, lips tight in case the wrong answer spilled out. There was no wrong answer, of course, only his opinions. But who knew if he saw that in Mahariel’s eyes. He had once confessed that he couldn’t read her, but she had always deemed him to be a fast learner. In the end he smiled and shrugged.

                “I wanted to be many things. But we all learned we can’t do everything; I just chose which path I was sure I could follow until the very end.”

                “Ah, yes,” Fenarel said as he clasped his hands against his chest. “Follower of Mythal, the all-mother and the protector. Will you protect us all from dreaded wolf, Tamlen? Will you hold me tight if he comes howling at night?” He made kissy noises as he wrapped his arms around himself.

                Mahariel bent double in laughter. Her fingers gripped the crook of Tamlen’s elbow just to keep her sat on the bed. Behind a hand Merrill snorted, then yelped when Fenarel dove toward her to avoid a kick from Tamlen.

                “Dread Wolf take you all,” Tamlen muttered.

                Mahariel pouted at him. “Including me?”

                 After a big roll of Tamlen’s eyes, he pulled Mahariel by the waist and kissed her cheek. “I can help you convince the Keeper if this design is what you really want.”

                “You have a plan?”

                A shrug. “Blackmail?”

                Mahariel slapped his arm lightly before resting her head on his shoulder.

                “So Tamlen,” Merrill asked as the tent fell into silence. “What’s the Keeper’s most embarrassing secret?”

                “Oh, sweet Merrill,” Tamlen grinned as he wrapped an arm around Mahariel’s shoulder. “You won’t be able be in the same room as the Keeper if I tell you.”

 

Long gone were the clouds that snuffed the brilliance of the sun, as far behind as Mahariel’s memory of the last time Namassa’s sword clashed against hers. She remembered the bite of winter on her cheeks as the wind carried a hint of the sea with it across the rocky spine of the coastlands, yet she had forgotten how it felt for her body to strain against its limits: to be quicker, to be stronger, and to be kicked off the brink only to find a new ledge to a higher cliff.

                Mahariel wondered what taller mountain she was climbing if one of the footholds consisted of waxing canvases hanging limp on a long pole. The Mountain of Patience, perhaps. Or Mount Boredom. Only the fact that she, Tamlen, Variel, and Inaan had a dozen more of the ten-foot tarps to wax kept Mahariel from a nap. Then there was Variel’s little looks, sneaked under lashes or tucked at the corners of her eyes. Mahariel pretended not to notice, obliging the craftsman’s chitchat in the first ten minutes of their work. The other three carried the conversation afterward, which ranged from what was stirring in the cooking pots to the possible names of Elder Cygan and Master Namassa’s child. Perhaps it should bother Mahariel that the voices around her so easily turned to buzzing; it certainly wasn’t a good habit to take when alone in the wilds.

                “What’s bothering you now?”

                Mahariel raised her eyes at Tamlen’s head popping from behind one of the support poles. She rubbed the wax bar down the edge of her half, pressing her palms in circles next to seal the layer into the fibre of the fabric.

                “Have I switched with Fenarel in the halla pen only to be ignored in favour of a soon-to-be tent?”

                Mahariel smiled at that. “Jealous?”

                He eyed her hands combing the length of the canvas. “I am, in fact.”

                Mahariel laughed; she wished it hadn’t come out as loudly for it caught Variel’s attention two rows behind them. The former gave the latter a smile and ducked under the fold of the tarp. If the craftsman had something to say, Mahariel wished for her to just blurt it; all the furtiveness soured the liking she held for Variel, which was a shame, despite the history between Tamlen and her. Of course, Mahariel could also approach her and breach the subject. Yet there she was, under a fold of tarp, erecting shorter poles into the ground to lift one side. Tamlen ducked under the main support, more poles in his arms.

                Soon they were enclosed by the drooping wings of the canvas. The beginnings of the spring breeze tried to sway the edges of their make-shift tent, which rustled the grass at each minute movement.

                “Are we hiding?” Tamlen’s short hair reached for the pole just an inch above his head. Although the canvas muted the sunlight into an orange glow, his eyes remained crystal blue. In fact they were bluer than ever now that his hair no longer fell over his forehead. His ears were exposed by his new haircut as well, their tips more visibly angled outward. With the sun able to reach more of his skin, the light seemed to elongate his face as it exposed the illusion of shadows. He looked younger for it.

                “We’re supposed to wax the inside too.” But Mahariel didn’t move to do as she said. Instead she stepped closer to Tamlen, fingers curled around the collar of his shirt as she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

                He responded at once. One hand clasped the back of her head, the other held on to her lower back, and his lips brushed along her cheek toward the corner of her mouth where he pressed an unhurried kiss. He sighed, his breath warming Mahariel in more ways than any spring breeze could promise. Mahariel tilted her head up to nip at his lower lip, her stomach pressed to his abdomen.

                “Did you have an argument?”

                Mahariel kept her eyes closed, lips trailing downward to tease the pulse on Tamlen’s neck. “What are you talking about?”

                “You. Variel. Avoiding each other.”

                Clicking her tongue, Mahariel stepped back and began searching for the bar of wax she dropped in the grass. “Is it that obvious?”

                “To be honest,” Tamlen said, crouching to pick up the wax behind his foot. He wrapped Mahariel’s fingers around it. “I thought she was watching me until you hid-”

                “I’m not hiding.”

                “Until you decided to wax the underside.” He edged around the end pole to supposedly peer at Variel and Inaan. “Perhaps you should make the first move.”

                A scoff escaped Mahariel before she could check herself. As if he would talk to Lukas to smooth out his history with her. Tamlen looked over his shoulder with a crease on his brow.

                “My relationship with Variel - if you can even call it a relationship - ended almost two years ago, Vie. Maybe she needs to talk to you about something else.”

 

That man’s words have a way of bouncing around Mahariel’s skull until she could no longer take the knocking. She found herself in master Ilen’s workshop later in the evening, just before the apprentices were instructed to tidy the area. Variel, being one of the most senior apprentices, showed the younger ones how to properly stow the silks specifically, for many of the hunters prefer the material for their bowstrings.

                As Variel made to lock the storage chest her eyes widened as they met Mahariel’s over the closing lid. She blinked twice as if to convince herself she was merely imagining things. Mahariel had a mind to indulge the notion, to just leave and forget about it and let the other woman talk to her in her own time. But she had been seen, and made eye contact at that! To turn away now would only raise the awkwardness. So Mahariel waited under the eave of the pavilion.

                Lanterns and fires were sparking across the camp when Variel finally joined her, barehanded and apron-less.

                “I didn’t expect a visit, lethallan,” She said, an arm out in invitation to stroll.

                Mahariel fell in step with her. “I have a feeling there is something you wanted to tell me.”

                She bit her lip, which was in itself a confirmation. “I am unsure- no, I’m certain it’s not in my place. But I can’t help but wonder.”

                They stopped in front of the armoury, now sealed for the night. A lone lantern hung on one corner, highlighting the upturn of Variel’s nose. If she kept worrying at her lip the way she did, she was bound to draw blood.

                “Lethallan,” Mahariel held her palms out. “I won’t chide you for overstepping. If you are concerned about this, then tell me.”

                Her eyes roved Mahariel’s face, searching for a prank or artifice. Mahariel showed her curiosity, a hint of concern; and they seemed to pass the test.

                “A few days back, maybe a week,” Variel began, licking her lips. “Two days before you and Tamlen left to scout, I caught him napping on that bench by the cooking ring. He was mumbling a bit and scowling fierce. I thought he was having a nightmare; and sure enough, when I tried to rouse him he shot to his feet and went for his knife. Lucky for me, he came to his senses before anything happened.”

                Mahariel herself was scowling now. “He never mentioned a nightmare.”

                Variel shrugged. “I had asked about it, but he said he no longer remembered. He didn’t even know if it was a bad dream or a good one. He just believed me when I told him he had a nightmare.”

                Perhaps, because it was Tamlen’s, the dream was nothing more than a dream. But Mahariel had woken in too many mornings without memory of dreaming, only the vague feeling that she saw the same dream over and over again. “And what was he saying in his sleep?”

                Variel pursed her lips as she hugged herself, as if to guard against a non-existent chill wind. “They were mostly unintelligible.”

                Mahariel leaned closer. “And the rest?”

                “A dark city.” A shiver ran through Variel, and her eyes jumped from light to shadow and back again. “A dark city, and eyes looking back.”

                Stories scrolled through Mahariel’s mind: the Black City from the Andrastrian tales, the fallen city of Arlathan, the city deep in the beyond where Fen’Harel locked the Creators and the Forgotten Ones, the cities the durgen’len lost to the darkspawn. It seemed as though all the races shared a fancy for fallen kingdoms and passed glory. But what were the eyes looking back? Spirits watching from the beyond? She shook the thoughts from her head and guided Variel back to central fire.

                Mahariel left her in Dedona’s company, their questions on which senior hunter she would be sparring with come morning lagged behind her flashing heels. A Dark City. Eyes watching. The words churned her stomach, harried her feet around pairs or trios gathering under a pool of lamplight until they reached the inner ring of aravels. Lightless and silent, Mahariel felt her way inside her aravel, skirting the corner of the lone desk’s corner by muscle memory. She pushed the window open and the moonlight picked edges and corners in blue lines. Her hand crept for the firestone on the desk, accidentally flicked it with her little finger, then finally brought the cool lump to her lips and whispered for light.

                Blue light flashed, striped by Mahariel’s fingers around the stone. She brought the light to the window, on the right side of its inside sill. There, awashed with firestone light, the flower gifted by the Chasind witch years ago waited. The blood-red of its petals drained dry by the blue light. The second bud had bloomed, cold and pale.


	31. Ten Years From Now

Pounding rattled the walls of the dream – crude stone, grey and grating behind a face: gold hair, blue eyes, smirking lips. The image guttered like a flame and darkness found Mahariel under the furs once again.

                _Dud-dud-dud-dud._

                She swung from the bed, hand grasping the scabbard leant against her cot. The banging continued; sides of fists against the door. Eventually on Mahariel’s temple. A rustle from behind, followed by the dull glow of what remained of the candle from the previous evening. Mahariel wrenched the door open in time for the light to fall onto the glistening eyes of Merrill.

                “Ashalle.” Nothing more than a croak.

                Mahariel grabbed two cloaks hung behind the door, threw one to her guardian as the latter strode past, and clasped the other around her shoulders. Figures in cloak and armor shifted in the shadows, behind crates or on top of boulders big enough to be a lookout spot. There were more of them in sight than ought to, yet the camp held a deeper silence than it ever had before. Only the awakening insects of the night croaked their existence. Farther north the sea rammed unending into coastal rocks. Mahariel and Ashalle followed Merrill through muted campfires which the night patrol left overnight, their glow barely reaching beyond three feet but enough for their eyes to read a path toward one of the largest aravels Sabrae clan had built. Mahariel crept to a halt.

                “But she’s not-”

                A shriek snapped the camp. Hisses echoed all around as blades were drawn, Mahariel’s included. Merrill raised her staff, pale white light pulsing around her hands.

Then silence.

                “No time,” the First said, indicating the aravel in front of them. “Please, Ashalle.”

                With a nod, the latter gathered her cloak and stepped into the flickering room. Crammed along with books shelved on the walls, a lone desk, and a cot, was Keeper Marethari. In the moment that the door was opened Mahariel saw the Keeper rush to Ashalle, and that blood glistened up to her wrists. The door banged close and she was left with Merrill in a pool of light from the crystal of her staff.

                “It’s too early,” Mahariel whispered so as not to disrupt the night once more. No matter how she rubbed her arms, the goosebumps would not leave.

                “One month. It’s not unheard of, but still…” Merrill frowned. She raised her left hand and where her palm touched ripples of light rushed outward, only to vanish as soon as Merrill cut the connection.

                “How is Namassa doing?”

                Tiny hands balled into fists, one white-knuckled around the staff. “I feel her screaming, lethallan. The barrier absorbs the sound, but I can sense a hint of her pain.”

                Mahariel’s own hand clutched her sword, the vines carved around its pommel bit into her palm – a better focus than the knotting of her stomach or the trembling in Merrill’s voice. “Is there anything I can do? For you, I mean.”

                A laugh – more anxious than amused. “There is one: would you get me some food, please? This will be a long night.”

               

Mahariel joined the vigil right after she had delivered the bread and cheeses to Merrill; for all that she wanted to keep her friend company, the idea of Namassa silently screaming as she gave birth a few paces away made her feel as though a nail was driven into her knees, reaching down to the marrow until her very bones were shaking. She hoped the hug she had given Merrill would sustain her through her task.

                Varanar spotted Mahariel as she came back out from the aravel fully armored. _Reinforce the south-west perimeter_ , he signaled across the greens. Mahariel bowed and left to carry his orders. Six hunters were spread out across the craggy plateau, all with their weapons at hand and eyes cast beyond the shadows of trees hardy and stubborn enough to thrive with so little soil for purchase. There was something to be said about the Dalish that they too settled in the area for months now; Mahariel grinned at that.

                She saw Fenarel first, crouched on a strangely smoothed block of stone – strange in that it was the only smooth surface she had seen in the area since their arrival. Fenarel’s bare sword lay by his feet, its edges sharpened by the light of the moon.

                “I thought you would sleep through the night, lethallan,” he said, smiling, though he kept his eyes on the wild side of their borders.

                Mahariel drew her cloak tighter. “Not after what I just heard.”

                “Heard?” A figure detached from the ground. Mahariel thought it had been one of many outcrops, but as the newcomer approached the clinking of beads identified him to be Chandan. “It’s been quiet all night. Aside from than one scream, of course. But I should not be surprised; it’s master Namassa, after all.”

                Fenarel drew a breath. “I’m guessing you don’t know much about giving birth.”

                Chandan scoffed, shifted his weight between his legs. “Well, not intimately. Do you?”

                Mahariel felt Fenarel’s eyes on her, waiting for her to chuckle; She pressed her lips together and didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he had predicted her reaction. She looked at Chandan, rather, she looked slightly higher up the glinting beads in his braids to where his face would be. “None of us here know; not intimately.”

                “Normally,” Fenarel said, “the sound barrier would be erected as soon as the mother goes into childbirth. But since hahren Namassa isn’t expected until a month from now, we’d no time to prepare the barrier nor the vigil. Hence why you and the other patrols were called back.”

                With a pensive humming, Chandan leaned on the block of stone. “This is not good for the baby; I know that much.”

                Fenarel grunted in agreement. Then he tapped Mahariel’s shoulder, jerked his thumb farther south where the tree line began. “Take your bow and keep watch with Tamlen. Keep it dark and quiet.”

 

A single word, spoken to the blackness of the night, was the greeting Tamlen offered her. As if his thoughts had chased its tail around and around in his mind all night and her presence was its long-awaited treat. _Mahariel._ How she loved her name on his tongue; no longer lethallan, but Mahariel.

                She sidled next to him, careful to approach his right side. “Anything?”

                “None.”

                Mahariel raised an eyebrow at his clipped answer. “You sound like you wish there was something.”

                He crossed his arms, shrugged, uncrossed his arms, then crouched on the balls of his feet. “Something to take my mind off, well, my mind.”

                Now Mahariel wished she had brought two mugs of apple cider and a couple of bread and cheese for themselves. She sat cross-legged next to him, one hand on her strung bow at her side and both eyes on the silhouettes made to dance by the passing clouds. “Talk.”

                “Did Namassa wake you?” There was genuine curiosity in his voice, but the words came out too blasé for them to be anywhere near the core of what was bothering him.

                But it was best to humour Tamlen whenever he got nervous. “Merrill woke me up. She came to get Ashalle. I was outside the aravel when Namassa wailed like that.”

                Tamlen winced in sympathy. The vigil had heard her even from outside campgrounds, after all. “My skin prickled all over.”

                “Mine as well.”

                They snickered at that, like little children sharing a secret. Somewhere above, in one of the thin branches in need of more foliage, an owl hooted. Both hunters craned their necks to catch sight of the bird said to be Andruil’s messenger, but all they saw were leaves desperate to green.

                “What do you think the owl has to say?” Tamlen asked.

                “It says that both mother and child will be healthy come morning.”

                 Tamlen turned to her; she knew for his breath warmed her cheek. “And what do you have to say?”

                “I say, it will be a tough few weeks for the baby if it lives. A tougher life for Namassa if the baby dies.”

                Tamlen finally dropped his arse on the ground, braced his elbows on his knees. Two pebbles crunched within one of his hands. “Have you ever thought about it…having children?”

                And there it was – the red dot on the target. Mahariel ran a finger down the silk of her bowstring as her mind arranged words to come out as neutral as possible. “Our numbers are in decline; every Dalish woman have thought of childbirth.”

                “And what have _you_ thought of it?” His voice was soft and calm, and Mahariel was sure then that Tamlen felt the brittle air between them too.

                “It’s difficult and painful.” A simple and honest answer. One that could potentially push Mahariel and Tamlen on thin ice. “One day, I hope to be brave enough to commit to creating my own family.”

                Another hoot from the elusive owl. If the camp were a living breathing being, Mahariel imagined it would feel as she felt sitting in that moment – ears perked, eyes wide, breath shallow, knowing that something could jump from the shadows yet unable to move. Mahariel almost begged for it to pounce already – to end the waiting.

                Tamlen’s arm bumped against hers and she jumped. The former paused in dusting his leggings to look at her. “Did I scare you?”

                “Yes.” She put more indignation in her voice than relief. At least he was talking now.

                Chuckling, he crouched back down to take her hand in his and helped her to her feet. Instead of letting go afterwards, he pulled Mahariel against himself and lowered his lips to her ear, brushing against the earcuff he had made for her. “One day, if you so decide, I hope to be the one you raise a family with. Whether it be tomorrow, or ten years from now, I hope you’ll still be with me.”

                Heat tingled from Mahariel’s fingertips up to her neck. A giddy smile fought a playful grin on her lips, which only resulted in an uneven smile. Tamlen smiled back anyway and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was light and sweet, and lasted only two heartbeats.

                “Shall we continue after the vigil?”

                Mahariel draped her hands on his shoulders, nodding. “I’d like that very much.”

                “Me too.” He kissed her temple one more time before his arms fell away from her waist.

                Mahariel turned her eyes back to the horizon. “Thank you, Tamlen.” He didn’t reply, but the brush of his arm against hers told her that he heard, and even more importantly: he understood.


	32. Struck By Lightning

Once again Ferelden glimmered in the muted light that only a combination of a carpet of snow, a canopy of clouds, and a setting sun could produce. Winter was supposed to have slunk back from the valleys – and it might have done that, but in the highlands rocks remained slippery with a coating of ice. The sting of Mahariel’s regret in choosing to be on the rear guard of the caravan bit as hard as the frigid sea breeze. It came in gust and gusto, spurring the campfire into a hissing dance.

                “You should sleep.”

                Mahariel raised her eyes from the book in her palms. Over the flames, Tamlen’s face wavered like a hazy dream, the dark wool cowl of his coat made him appear like a floating head. “It’s my watch; You go to sleep.”

                He raised an eyebrow, shimmying his shoulders to better wedge them between their packs. “You? Watch? With your nose between a book? How?”

                Mahariel snapped the book shut; he had a point, and her eyes began to glaze over poems for the lost Dales anyway. She threw the book at Tamlen, who caught it in his left hand. “While you’re tucking the book into my pack, you might as well take out the pouch under the bread.”

                Another raised eyebrow. Then his face was swallowed by shadow as he bent his neck to rummage through her pack. At last, his hands reemerged with a dark sackcloth which fit one hand perfectly. “What is this?”

                Drawing her blankets around her neck, Mahariel scooted her way next to Tamlen. “Open it.”

                He just stared at her, eyes flicking all over her face. Then, “No. You didn’t.”

                Mahariel scoffed. “I did. Just open it, alright.” He made to push the parcel into her hands, but sge locked her arms against her chest. “Take it or I swear I will leave you here alone.”

                A pause. A groan. Tamlen rolled his eyes, and finally tugged at the strings of the pouch. “We agreed not to do this.”

                “No, you asked me not to celebrate your birthday and I glared at you. Technically, I never agreed to anything. Just accept it this once?”

                Tamlen wriggled two fingers into the pouch and, with a frown, pulled the box from its wrapping. The wooden cube sat in the middle of his palm. The campfire made darker shadows of the grooves etched into its sides, all looking like a maze viewed from the sky. Six silver knobs gathered in the middle the of topside of the cube, each one lodged in their own furrow. Tamlen thumbed one of them down toward a corner and two other knobs from the crown slid down their pathways. The aim was to get one knob in the middle of each side; that was the only way for the box to open. Master Ilen was rumored to have all the knobs click in place all at once. Mahariel tried to question him about it when she had commissioned the master craftsman weeks ago, but he deflected every time.

                “June’s box,” Tamlen said, shaking it close to his ear. Nothing. “There must be something inside.”

                “There is,” Mahariel said as she leaned forward, the tips of her hair brushed Tamlen’s thighs as she did so. “It’s your present.”

                Just as Mahariel grinned, Tamlen slumped onto the packs again. He tilted the box one way then the other. “Then I’m never going to find out what it is.”

                “Must you be so dramatic?” Mahariel snatched the present from his hand, tucked it under her cloak, and rose to her feet. Before she could even haul herself to her knees, fingers wrapped around her wrist and pulled her back down. Really, Tamlen could be so easily manipulated sometimes. It was both a pity and an advantage – pity for him, advantage for her.

                “Give it back, it’s mine.”

                Was that a whine in his voice?

                Mahariel turned her body away from Tamlen and clutched the box to her chest. “You didn’t look like you appreciated it a moment ago.”

                “Come on.” He placed a hand at the crook of her elbow and began tugging at it, which Mahariel laughed at. “You said it was my gift.”

                “You sound three rather than twenty-three.”

                Suddenly Mahariel’s back hit the ground. Tamlen bent over her, arms braced on either side of her shoulder. Short fringes flopped over his forehead, tickling Mahariel’s own. June’s box was pressed between them, yet Mahariel only felt the heat from Tamlen’s body. Looking up at him, with the fire emphasizing the angle of his jaw, he looked very much like a young man in his prime.

                “May I have my gift back, Vie?”

                Mahariel sucked in a breath through her teeth, her fingers tightened around the box. “If I say no?”

                He grinned at that. He lowered his head, tilting ever so slightly so that his nose brushed the peak of her cheekbone. Warmth spread up Mahariel’s face as Tamlen moved lower and to the side, closer to her earlobe. She couldn’t help but turn her head to give Tamlen access to her ear. And bless the Creators, Tamlen obliged by taking her earlobe between his lips.

                “Do you want me to continue, Vie?”

                Her shoulders curled as his breath fanned over her skin. “Maybe.”

                Mahariel almost felt the chuckle in his chest; she cursed at the box that kept them separated. She dragged it out from underneath him and let her hand plop to the side. Not even a second after the block was gone, Tamlen pressed his body to hers. He chuckled again, and this time, it tingled straight up Mahariel’s spine.

                A kiss on the temple, then the cheek. Mahariel’s eyes fluttered close as Tamlen eased her mouth open with his lips. They were cracked and dry, but also warm and sweet. Not sweet from any food, but from the gentleness of each lingering kiss and softness of his sighs as she kissed back. Had anyone told Mahariel two years ago that she would be here in Tamlen’s arms, kissing him, she would have barked a laugh; _He treats me as a sister,_ she would have insisted. Yet there they were, supposed to be on watch, instead they lay on Tamlen’s blanket. Kissing. Touching. Arching against each other.

                Tamlen pulled back and Mahariel bit her lip to stop herself from moaning. His eyes were dark with desire, lips parted in attempt to gain the breath she took from him. “Part of me is happy that you’re not getting your vallaslin yet,” he said, tracing her jaw with his fingertips.

                “Why is that?” She tried to focus on his eyes and not the way his thumb caressed her chin.

                “Because I get to see your bare face a little longer.”

                He dipped his head for another kiss. He tugged at her chin, and as her lips parted he slid his tongue along her bottom lip. Mahariel gasped, hands pulled at the clasp of his coat. Tamlen pulled away again, fingers traced down her throat. They came to stop at the chords of the leather gorget.

                “May I?” A whisper.

                Mahariel leaned her head back to grant him access. There was a slowness to his hands now, cautious as though treating a bird with injured wings. Closing her eyes, Mahariel listened to the hitches in his breathing as his fingers unlaced the garment. She had allowed no one to touch her so - not even Lukas, whose hands she had kept away from the soft skin of her neck. But she trusted Tamlen, fully. She could expose all her weaknesses to him and he would fold them in his hands and tuck them into his heart.

                A gasp slipped Mahriel’s lips as the leather left her neck; cold air made icy beads of the sweat that had gathered there, only to be thawed by his lips. He must have felt the racing pulse at the base of her throat for she felt him smile. His lips parted, and goosebumps raced up her arms as his teeth grazed her skin. Then he stopped. Pulled back.

                Was Tamlen regretting taking their relationship in this path? Were they solely friends after all? Mahariel opened her mouth to speak but Tamlen beat her to it.

                “Where did you get that? Are you feeling alright?”

                Frowning, Mahariel ran a finger down the side of her neck. A small swelling, right where the needle punctured her early in the morning. Mahariel let her hand drop and let her head loll on the ground. “It’s nothing serious.”

                Tamlen’s turn to frown. “I can see the veins, Mahariel. What-oh, no. Please tell me you didn’t. Creators, you did, didn’t you? I thought you were past that part in your training? Ah, wolfshit. Which poison is it now?” He pushed off from her, sat on his legs and crossed his arms against his chest.

                Mahariel sighed. But things were going so well a second ago! “Venom, from plants and some reptiles. The one master Ilen makes, remember?”

                Tamlen ran his hand through his hair, making more of a mess of it than what Mahariel’s hands previously did. “For what this time?”

                “A stronger recipe for paralysis.”

                Tamlen blinked at her a few times, his jaw working to find the right words. “Well, at least you seem to be resisting the effects.”

                Mahariel sat up and pulled her hair and coat around her naked neck. “That is the point of giving myself small doses of it, Tamlen. Here-” she took June’s box and pressed in into his palm “-you might want to start solving the puzzle. Your gift awaits.”

                She plucked her gorget from the blanket and marched beyond the firelight, ignoring Tamlen’s requests for her to return. She only looked back over her shoulder and told him that she needed to cool down.

                Yet even after she had calmed her arousal and waved away her disappointment, she dragged her bedroll farther from the fire, farther from Tamlen’s slumbering form, and watched the night turn to dawn.

 

Two things that Mahariel loved about the Brecilian Forest were its resistance to blankets of snow and its myriad of hidden ruins said to date back before humans arrived in Thedas. Pines and oak and some yew greeted the clan as they maneuvered the rolling hills surrounding South Reach. Mahariel watched from a rise as the halla and aravels flattened grass, or churned soil if lacking the former. To her right, Tamlen held a hand over his eyes as he tracked the head of their marching caravan, long coat snapping in the wind. On her leftt, Sareen knelt on one knee as she signed the all-clear to the rear guard.

                “Won’t be long before the woods,” Sareen said, squinting up at Mahariel. “Can’t wait to be out of the open.”

                The sentiment was mutual. Although the clan’s travel through the Bannorns was peaceful, they were still vulnerable without stone walls for protection; in fact, their green sails would call attention from eyes miles away when in the flatlands. So yes, Mahariel was also eager to delve back into the woods. Her back would also appreciate reuniting with its cot once the clan settled.  Early spring made for damp bedrolls.

                From the very back of the procession, Fenarel raised his sword, its blade glinting as he waved for the scouts to move ahead. Sareen jumped to her feet, dusted her leggings, and bounded down the hill. Neither Mahariel nor Tamlen moved to follow.

                “I’m sorry.” Tamlen broke the silence first. “I ruined that night.”

                Mahariel shrugged. “I understand your concern about the poisons, Tamlen. Believe me, I know the risks. I just wished you didn’t see it at that moment, or at least didn't comment on it.”

                Slowly, they picked their way down the rise, following Sareen’s shrinking form. The wind carried the snorts and stamps of the halla, as well as other unpleasant scents the herd produced. Mahariel scrunched her nose, which made Tamlen smile.

                “Do you regret it?” he asked finally.

                “The thought of us…sexually…” Mahariel cleared her throat, kept her eyes on the caravan. “It is strange at times. But I don’t regret it.”

                “Neither do I.” A grin. “But yes, strange. I remember this little girl asking me for rides on my back, and hiding stones under my sheets; then I see you, still little, but now you’re hunting bears, negotiating with shemlen, and, well…you know.”

                Mahariel smiled as he shook his head. Then, “Does it bother you? That I have shared a bed for the first time with someone else?”

                Tamlen took a deep breath, eyes not meeting hers. “Yes. So much. But that was my fault; I paid for it. But now I’m here.”

                He stepped into her path, almost making her crash into him. He took both Mahariel’s hands and kissed her knuckles. “I will make up for the other night, Mahariel. There will be more of them – quiet nights with just you and I. I promise.”

                Grinning, Mahariel pressed his face between her palms. “I’ll hold on to that promise.”

                He dipped his head for a kiss. When they parted, mischief gleamed in his eyes. “Last one to reach Sareen takes halla duty.”

                Then he was running -  as if we weren’t in full armour, his heels kicked the dew clinging to the grass, creating bursts of crystals in his wake. By the Creators, she loved him. Mahariel loved him. She loved him in every way a person can love another; and as she stood there, watching him win the race, she was certain she was struck by lightning.


	33. Third Bloom

There was a certain oppression that only the dregs of spring could bring; rainless clouds pressed down on the earth, smothering the sky so diligently that not even wind could penetrate. But perhaps Mahariel’s position under Elder Cygan’s nose contributed much to her clammy palms. Granted, she had come from training as soon as the Elder called for her and so still drenched from the paces Varanar had put her through, but she would have thought she had cooled off by then.

                Mahariel glanced up at the archivist, raised her chin from the pommel of one of her swords, both of which remained planted parallel on the ground between her legs. “You realize I have no experience with child rearing.”

                Elder Cygan drummed his fingertips on the arm of his chair, head against the backrest, eyes on the underside of the eave shading Namassa’s window. “I do. I also know you mean more to her than just her prodigy; it would lift her spirit to see you visit, da’len. She has not voiced it, but she fears you have distanced yourself from her again.”

                Mahariel scoffed. It was her mentor who had left her, but because it was due to her pregnancy – something she could possibly not help but see through – apparently it was perceived that Mahariel was the one to pull away. She stood up, stretched her back, and plucked her weapons. “I better go; I’m training the young ones today.”

                She turned but stopped as a soft voice wrapped around her wrist. “Do it for me da’len. My son struggles enough, I do not wish my wife to suffer even worse.”

                Mahariel spun, strode up to the pleading man and dropped her voice. “And what am I to do? Talk about the weather? Ask how her newborn fares when I know Merrill and the Keeper have to treat him each night so that he could wake up the next morning?”

                Cygan’s face scrunched at that, and the mist in his eyes swirled. Mahariel took a breath, softened her voice. “I am no more capable of handling this situation than you are, hahren. I am sorry that Dethalian must fight for life so young, I’m sorry for Namassa’s pain, and I feel your helplessness.”

                Tears fell from the archivist’s eyes, bright and clear in the stale morning. He hunched over, slapped his hands over his eyes, and something shifted inside Mahariel then. She found herself sitting on the armrest, rubbing circles on Elder Cygan’s back.

                “How about we get some food? And when we come back, perhaps Namassa and Dethalian will be awake.”

                It took more promises to coax Cygan out of the grief he burrowed himself into – promises to talk with her mentor whenever she was idle in camp, promises to play with the baby who might not live to his first birth day.

 

Mother and child were indeed awake once Mahariel and Cygan returned with bellies full of porridge and berries. Namassa sat at the foot of the small cot tucked into the corner of the aravel, in front of her was the boy, an open book, and a wooden rattle. Quick short wheezes strained in the room, its spurts in time with the swelling and deflating of the boy’s tummy. His head looked a little too big for his body – especially with the long limbs, and what brown curls he had did not cover the pale dome of his scalp. He was supposed to be ten months old, yet to Mahariel, Dethalian seemed an old man tired of his long life. Something stirred from the corner of her vision and Mahariel cast her eyes to the floor, blinking away the moisture.

                “Da’len.” Surprise, made prominent by the brittle hum of Namassa’s voice. “I didn’t expect- it’s good to see you, Mahariel.”

                The latter wished she could say the same. But as her eyes climbed their way from her mentor’s smooth feet, up the tearing ends of her pallid hair, and past the shallows of her cheek, Mahariel’s need to run rose from her stomach and choked her. The best she did was bow, which was a cheap excuse not to look at her mentor in such as state. Cygan brushed pass her and settled behind young Dethalian. Father pressed a kiss on the son’s head and asked him what he was doing, to which the boy replied with a wet burble.

                “Mahariel,” Namassa called, letting her son and husband flip the pages of the book as she scooted to the edge of the cot. “Is that pity you hide behind your eyes, da’len? Or is it disillusionment?”

                Her head snapped up. “What?”

                The head hunter– former head hunter- cocked her head. “I know you find it hard to look at me, Mahariel, but look anyway. Let your eyes take in every detail, for this could be my last lesson for you: we are all flesh, blood, and bones. Even the Creators wavered when it truly mattered.”

                The baby cooed, rattling his toy as his father nodded and smiled along with him. It was then that the Vir Assan rushed from the back of her mind: _Strike true, do not waver. And let not your pray suffer._ Mahariel stumbled, as though knocked on the chest with a hammer forged by her own thoughts. Cygan and Namassa looked at her, identical frowns creasing their brows. The latter opened her mouth, about to ask what got into her, but Mahariel ran before the words could chase her out.

                Voices zipped past her, exclamations and questions. She ignored them all, let her feet carry her to wherever the trails on the forest floor wound about. At the end on a faint deer trail, a twisted ashy tree clung to the edge of a drop, its roots curling at least seven feet in open air. As Mahariel prepared to leap over the ground-bound roots, she was rammed on the side, and fell on her hands and knees among the tangle of roots. She then filled the burrows with her retching.

                The sickness left her trembling on her side a mere two feet from her vomit; not even the sour stench could disgust her more than her thoughts already had. What kind of person had she become? Or was she truly the kind of person who would end a young life because living was hard, and she just didn’t realise until she laid eyes on Dethalian?

                A shake coaxed Mahariel’s attention to her surroundings. Above her a face swirled like water in rapids. Whosever face it was shook her shoulders once more, its voice starting to rise over the ringing in her ears. Hands cupped her face, cold and rough. A slap on her cheek knocked the cotton from Mahariel’s ears.

                “Creators, Mahariel! Look at me.”

                Her head rolled, eyes swooping past the blurry face. “Tamlen?”

                “Yes. Yes, Fenarel is here too. Lethallin, take this.”

                Shuffling and clinking. Then an arm slipped under her back and another scooped under her knees. She felt weightless for a moment, like those times she let herself glide on the surface of a lake, one hand balled around Tamlen’s shirt to keep herself from drifting. Mahariel closed her eyes and let current flow around her.

 

A snap broke her dreams and Mahariel fell on the cold ground of a cave. Her swords laid next to her, as did her leather cuirass. She sat up, letting the blanket fall around her waist. The world spun around and she had to close her eyes lest she vomited again.

                “Mahariel?” A gentle hand squeezed her shoulder. “It’s Tamlen, you hear? You’re safe.”

                Sighing, Mahariel let her head drop against Tamlen’s chest. The breastplate stung her seemingly bruised cheek, but the scent of leather overpowered the whir of her own mind. Mahariel felt Tamlen’s arms encircle her, and she was grateful for the silence he offered.

                It was not until late in the afternoon that Tamlen initiated conversation. Statement at first, non-relevant or simple. Fenarel went back to camp, he said, to inform the others of Mahariel’s whereabouts. He offered her drink and food. Then, he moved into the questions.

                “Would you tell me what happened, Vie?” he asked as he pulled Mahariel close.

                Even with her back against his chest, Mahariel knew a frown marred his sweet face. “Have you seen him? Dethalian, I mean.”

                Silence. His chest rose in a long intake of breath. Then, “Yes. You’ve gone to see him?”

                “Elder Cygan asked me to talk to Namassa. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I didn’t see them.” She snuggled closer and said no more. Tamlen’s arms tightened around her.

 

As the afternoon wore on and insects began to sing for the evening, Mahariel lit a small fire by the back wall of the cave. Well, Mahariel called it a cave, misinterpreting what she saw while disoriented; but the shelter was in fact a crumbled passage to an underground room or tunnel. Whatever it had been, only the arch of its portal and a few feet of barrel vaulted corridor survived, and even they were unrecognizable under years of moss, dirt and beasts using the ruin for shelter. Earlier, Tamlen had taken her outside and pointed out the snug mound of rocks that closed the back end of structure. “Someone caved it in purposely,” he said with a grin. Mahariel hadn’t been able to return the smile, nor share his excitement, so both agreed to let Tamlen patrol while Mahariel rested.

                Just as the kindling took fire, two sharp calls overpowered the croaking of the forest. She waited by the entrance, ears straining for the rustle of feet. Tamlen slapped a bough aside as he strode with a fist raised high, from which two rabbits dangled.

                Mahariel performed a pout. “Oh, no. Not your rabbit skewers again.”

                “Shove over, will you,” he replied with a smirk and chucked his shield at her.

                She left the skinning and gutting to him since she preferred the warmth of the fire and its hypnotic snapping and flickering. The light gave her something to watch, a simple entertainment that did not require her to decide whether the images she saw in them were imagined or not.

 

The sky was a dark blue by the time Tamlen stretched out on his bedroll and laid his head on Mahariel’s lap. The fire spat and hissed at the dripping fat of the roasting meat, each drop sending the shadows on the stone walls into a dance frenzy. On an intake of breath, Mahariel’s stomach grumbled.

                Tamlen laughed. “Now you like my cooking?”

                Mahariel clamped her hand over his mouth. His hands flew to her wrist and tugged. Once, twice. When Mahariel merely smiled down at him, he set his palms on his stomach. They eyed each other – Tamlen’s blue eyes shining with challenge, Mahariel’s dark ones glinting with a dare. For three heartbeats Mahariel let Tamlen’s breath waft across her knuckles, noting the rhythm of his lungs. It was between the fourth inhale and third exhale that she felt his lips twitch against her palm. She snapped her hand back with a yelp. Too late.

                Tamlen’s laughter rang, high and clear as summer skies. He still had his tongue out, pointed now at her in mockery.

                “You are disgusting,” Mahariel said, wiping the spot of saliva on her palm on Tamlen’s pant leg.

                “Yet somehow you like me.”

                The wonder in his voice drew her attention back to Tamlen’s eyes. Did he not know for certain? Was he having doubts? Mahariel cocked her head, face blank. “Do I?”

                He trailed his right hand up her arm and cradled her neck, his thumb brushed below her lips. Mahariel closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. “Yes, you do.”

                She felt his gaze on her face even though his hand began to follow the curve of her throat down to the ridge of her collarbone and across her chest. Heat tracked the path of his hand, almost scalding despite the layer of tunic.

                “I can feel your heart beat,” he whispered.

                With deft fingers, Mahariel unbuckled his cuirass. She smiled at the gasp Tamlen failed to swallow and slipped her hand underneath the leather. His heat, trapped underneath armour for most of the day, almost made her sigh in satisfaction. Instead she settled for a smile as she spread her fingers on Tamlen’s chest.

                “I can feel your heart beat too.” Indeed, it beat erratically, as though it felt Mahariel’s hand there – so close, and it called to be held within her palm.

 

Tamlen had fallen asleep on Mahariel’s lap by the time two sharp whistles echoed from outside the cave.

                Another short whistle, akin to bird call. Gingerly, Mahariel scooped Tamlen’s head and laid it on a roll of cloaks. He grumbled, eyes fleeting under his lids, yet remained asleep. Mahariel tiptoed from under the stone vault in time to see Fenarel shrug off the hood of his coat, an unlit lantern tied to a pack – Mahariel’s pack, in fact - on his back jingling as he approached.

                “Lethallan.” His eyes roamed her, and, apparently finding her to be not as distraught as he and Tamlen had found her, gave her arms a firm squeeze. “Tamlen made you stand watch, did he?”

                Mahariel smiled with a shrug. “An exchange for him cooking.”

                He grunted. “Rabbit skewers.”

                “We left you some.”

                “You should not have. Really.”

                As quietly as possible, Fenarel ducked around the cave to tidy the pots and seasonings Tamlen had unwrapped from their pack. He was not doing an excellent job of staying quiet, not by Mahariel’s ears, but Tamlen was dead to the other’s shuffling. She made a note to warn Tamlen of his lapse in survival instincts.

                Soon, Fenarel joined her at the edge of the light just a few paces from the mouth of the cave, a bowl and cup in his hands. “Ashalle was worried. Again.”

                Mahariel drew her knees against her chest. “She always is. Especially now that I know the truth. I think she fears I might go berserk and burn down a human town the first chance I get.”

                “Perhaps-” he tore a piece of flat bread with his teeth – “it has something to do with how you roared – roared, mind you - at her and the Keeper when they told you.”

                She groaned at that. Rumour was, every single person in the camp on that day had heard her. No one spoke about it, of course; not even behind Mahariel’s back. According to Merrill it was an unspoken Sabrae clan secret – like the spell bound around Miro to enable him to understand their speech, or the couplings and fraternizing among and outside hunter ranks.

                “But that was, what, two years ago!”

                Fenarel shrugged as he drained his drink. “It had been the best entertainment for a while.”

                Mahariel shuddered to think what the current best entertainment was; But a deep dark pit in her stomach told her she knew exactly what it was. “I wish the others would just stop swapping rumours about me.”

                Fenarel grinned, white canines glinting despite the dim light. “Oh lethallan. We don’t always talk about you. Sometimes we talk about Tamlen. Sometimes we talk about Tamlen _and_ you.”

                Mahariel buried her chin between her knees. “Shove over.”

                “Ha! Now you’re talking like him too.”

                His amusement rolled off him in bursts, interrupting a bite here and a gulp there. Mahariel let her frown flow away along with his chuckles and watched the first stars of the night. It was only when Fenarel had scraped his dish clean that he mentioned Namassa.

                “She told me what happened and asked me to send her apology. Her words were harsh.”

                Only it wasn’t her words that drove Mahariel away. She bit her lip as an itch began to squirm inside her. Her mouth opened, closed. Opened. She closed her eyes and pictured herself disappearing into the darkness behind her eyelids. Fenarel was not sitting next to her; Tamlen was not sleeping a few feet behind her. There was only a black canvas and she spoke to it:

_Vir Assan: the Way of the Arrow_

_Be swift and silent;_

_Strike true, do not waver_

_And let not your prey suffer._

_That is my Way._

                “Andruil makes a swift death sound like mercy. Then it must be cruelty to keep the ones we love by our side though they suffer.”

                Silence.

                Mahariel opened her eyes, expecting to be alone. But she was greeted by Fenarel’s eyes. He stared at her for a time, silent except for the steady flow of his breathing.  At last, he glanced over his shoulder at Tamlen’s sleeping form, then back to Mahariel.

                “I do not agree with your thoughts, but I won’t blame you for it.  We are trained to hunt and kill, Mahariel; we were trained to follow such instincts. That you reacted the way you did – that you chose to run - makes me think better of you. Not less.”

                A tingle ran up Mahariel’s nose and she found herself blinking tears. With an arm around her shoulder, Fenarel pulled her into a hug.

                “You wish me to keep this from Tamlen?”

                Mahariel nodded, sniffling.

                “Then it will be our secret.”

 

They returned to camp two days later with a buck in tow. It was Mahariel who felled the deer, and her chest loosened to know that her arrow did not waver. Heartened by the clean shot, she talked herself up to visit her mentor once more. Her feet delivered her to the doorstep of their aravel; but no further. She found herself staring at the wooden door twice in a single day only to turn around at the slightest sound from within.

                Merrill caught her on the return path at the end of the day. “It helps if you knock, you know,” she said, linking their arms. “No one would know you’re there if you keep quiet. Trust me, I know.”

                Mahariel offered her a rueful smile. “Let’s work on speaking up then, shall we?”

                Under the remaining rays of the sun, they sprawled on the grass and read through the neat letters of Merrill’s notes. More on healing and spirit magic, this time. Somewhere between healing herbs and poisonous bulbs, a shadow fell onto the open pages.

                Mahariel glanced up to see Tamlen crouched in front of them.

                “Merrill,” he said, smirking, “may I snatch Mahariel away for a moment?”

                The former giggled as the latter raised an eyebrow. “Silly, Tamlen. It’s not snatching if you ask permission, is it?”

                He hummed. “You’re absolutely right, Merrill.” He wrapped a hand around Mahariel’s wrist and pulled her to her feet. “I’ll just take her then.”

                Merrill’s “have fun!” could barely be heard as Tamlen took off toward his tent.

                Once inside, he swung Mahariel around and caught her by the waist. “Hello.”

                Laughter bubbled up from Mahariel’s belly. “Hello.”

                Wandering fingers snagged on buckles and straps, dropped daggers and swords to the ground, undid buttons down a chest or untied laces up a spine. The still air tingled with static, though the sky was clear of storm.  Cambric rasped against each other as Mahariel and Tamlen swayed their way toward the cot.

                “Tamlen,” Mahariel whispered by his ear, lips not touching his skin, “someone could walk in, you know.”

                He hummed, the sound rumbled in his chest. “Fenarel is busy training the kids.”

                The edge of the cot hit the back of Mahariel’s knees and as she sank on the furs, Tamlen followed her down, crawled over her; his body barely touched hers and the anticipation coaxed a grin on Mahariel’s lips. She let him prop himself on his arms and knees, withholding the permission to settle his weight on her. Smiling, she ran her palms up his abdomen, brief and light, not even enough to tug at his tunic.

                “I wonder how long you can hold yourself up.”

                He chuckled. He tilted his head as if to kiss her cheek. “Now that you made it a dare-”

                “I didn’t.”

                He raised an eyebrow. “In that case…”

                He nudged Mahariel’s thighs apart with his knee, all the while holding her gaze. An electric thrill raced up her spine and came out as a muffled moan. Creators, they were not even touching! What would even happen when they were finally skin to skin?

                As if in answer, Tamlen pressed his hips against hers and her mouth fell open in a gasp. Each tip of her fingers and toes tingled as her blood rushed through her veins. Another roll of their hips spurred Mahariel’s heart into a frenzy gallop, and she was sure Tamlen felt it, for she felt the pounding in his chest.

                Tamlen buried his face in the crook of her neck, breath tickling the length of her ear. “I want to taste you.”

                Mahariel bit her lips against a moan and lifted her chin. His fingers found the button of her collar immediately; she barely had time to turn her head to give a better access when Tamlen kissed her neck. Her hands balled at the back of his shirt; her tugging turned to scratching as teeth scraped skin. He bit her once and Mahariel’s hands yanked at his hair. They were arching toward each other, moving together, panting, kissing, grasping.

                Before long Mahariel felt the tightening in her gut and the trembling in her thighs. Tamlen felt it too, he must have, for his movements slowed. Then eventually stopped. They lay wrapped in the other’s arms, sweaty and heavy-eyed.

                “All that and we still have our clothes on,” Tamlen said, merely above a gasp.

                “Imagine what it will be like without them.”

                He pressed his hips once more, involuntary as it was unexpected. He groaned. “Please. Don’t.”

                Mahariel chuckled, threaded her fingers into his hair. “I’m sleepy.”

                Tamlen rolled to the side, taking Mahariel with him so that her head rested on his chest. She felt his lips on her head before dreams took her.

 

She was jerked awake, quite literally, just after noon. The fingers curled around her upper arm twitched as though trying to grip but lacked the strength to do so. Tamlen’s whole body flinched in a manner that put Mahariel’s mind on a kicked stomach. She sat up, pulled herself free from Tamlen’s arms and shook him.

                He did nothing more than mumble. His frown deepened, lips twitched in a snarl. Two words escaped his clenched teeth: “Get off.” Mahariel shook him harder then, calling his name, urging him to listen to her voice. It was said that demons snatched souls in their sleep if one were to follow them, or fall for their deceptions; Merrill said it was easier for mages to slip, but anyone can.

                Mahariel cupped Tamlen’s face, slapping his cheek a little. “It’s a nightmare, Tamlen,” she kept repeating. “You’re dreaming. You need to wake up.”

                Still no response. When his mumbling increased in volume Mahariel slapped him, full force. Tamlen jolted awake, bewildered as he rubbed his jaw.

                “What? Vie? Why are looking at me like at? Are you alright?”

                “Am I alright? Are _you_ alright?”

                He frowned, rubbed his jaw some more. “Did you punch me?”

                “Slapped. I slapped you. You were having a nightmare.” She leaned forward, waiting for him to tell her about it.

                “Huh.” He sat up, stretched his back, and cracked a huge yawn. “I don’t remember.”

                Dread spread in her gut and stained her previous bliss. Mahariel bolted from the bed, not bothering to gather her things. Tamlen followed suit, not needing to ask questions. The two of them jogged toward the eastern arch of wagons. They barged into one of the smaller aravels, which lay cold and silent. Mahariel strode to the window, flung it open, and peered at the outer sill.

                Four white blossoms stared up at her, blood-red centers like pairs of eyes watching from the edges of dreams. Sweetness wafted from them, like pure honey, but Mahariel tasted salt of blood on her tongue. She swept the mossy pot in her hand, cocked her arm.

                Before she could throw the plant against the tree outside a firm grip held her wrist and wrestled the plant from her.

                “Look at me, Vie.”

                Hands held her shoulders, fixing her sight on Tamlen. His eyes jumped across her face.

                “Deep breaths, Vie. Take deep breaths.” He wrapped her hands in his own and pressed them against his chest so that she might tune in to his breathing.

                And she did. How easy it was for her to latch onto Tamlen, to match him piece by piece. As her pulse calmed, Mahariel glared at the Wilder flowers.

                “I dream about her, Tamlen. The witch-child. The more I hear her words, the less I understand. And now you’re having nightmares too.”

                He stepped behind her and shielded her with his embrace. “They’re only dreams; you said it yourself not long ago.”

                “Just dreams.” The words felt hollow as they left her mouth. She leaned her head on Tamlen’s shoulder and let the tension wash down her body.

                “We can talk to the Keeper about this later. For now, you need to relax.” He pulled her toward her cot, smiling.

                They fell on the on blankets together, limbs once again tangled. Mahariel pressed her cheek against Tamlen’s chest to hide the frown that marred their earlier pleasure. The last flower bloomed, and as the image hunted Mahariel to her dreams she thought she heard bells ringing. Deep, shuddering knells: a summoning from five spires of an ancient ruin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you guys, but I think I feel the end creeping closer.


	34. The Calm Before the Storm

“He had the dream again.”

                Wind slipped through the crisscross of chords that kept the halves of the tent entrance together as Mahariel wrestled her eyes from the red flowers in front of her. Despite the dense trees – pines, oaks, beech, and others Mahariel had no names for – the breeze found paths between the foliage to stir the fallen leaves off the ground and rattle the lanterns hanging on aravels, or even inside tents.

                “Is it worse?” she asked, pulled Tamlen’s blanket around her shoulders.

                Fenarel sighed like no one else could: half-worry, half-exasperation, and wholly reluctant to speak what he knew. He rolled back onto his cot, using one arm as a pillow.

                “Is he saying anything? In his sleep, I mean.”

                Fenarel hummed. “Nothing comprehensible. I ask him, you know, every time. He says he doesn’t remember his dreams.”

                His voice came relaxed, nonchalant, but there were two words that Mahariel latched onto and she ground them between her teeth until she swallowed all their possible meanings. “Every time? How often does he have these nightmares?”

                Fenarel sat up then, groaning as he swiped a hand down his face. Regret curled at his lips. “I only meant that I’ve tried to talk to him about it since you mentioned it to me. I am as concerned as you are, lethallan. Tamlen is not one to dwell on things from the Beyond, but he is not prone to nightmares either.”

                “I swear, it’s because of this flower!” She jabbed a finger at the lightly swaying plant. Fenarel hummed again, his doubts and reservations plain on his face. Mahariel locked her arms against her chest. “Don’t give me that frown. I’m having nightmares, Tamlen is having nightmares, and they all started after these flowers bloomed.”

                “That hardly proves that the flowers are the cause.”

                “A witch gave it to me.”

                Fenarel shrugged. “The Keeper is the expert on magic, and she already said it is nothing special save for its healing properties.”

                Mahariel scoffed, drew her legs under her, and laid her head on the edge of Tamlen’s cot. “If it’s not special, then why did the Keeper wound a spell around it to keep it healthy?”

                Before Fenarel could reply a tug on the chords drew their attention to the two voices beyond the flaps of the tent.

                “I know, Merrill, I’m going as fast as I can.”

                Tamlen.

                Fenarel pressed a finger to his lips then pointed at Mahariel before standing up to help untie the tent laces. The latter rolled her eyes, but otherwise kept silent about Tamlen’s dreams.

                Merrill came tumbling into the tent first, arms around her body as she hopped from foot to foot. “Never touch a halla from behind, especially old finicky ones who might have lost control of their bladder.”

                “Um.” If Fenarel wanted to say more, the words jammed in his throat.

                Apparently,Tamlen understood what he wanted to say. “Don’t worry, I had her wash off in the stream. Soap and all.”

                “And a whole lot of shivering!”

                Merrill threw her best glare at Tamlen, but the latter shrugged it off as he spotted Mahariel. At once, he stripped his armor piece by piece without breaking their gaze. The less leather he wore, the more Mahariel’s eyes wandered, and the more Tamlen grinned. When he was only in his tunic and trousers he joined her on the ground, shoulder to shoulder.

                “Should Merrill and I leave?”

                Mahariel’s head snapped to Fenarel, who had a smirk of his own.

                “What?” Merrilled piped in. “But I just only got here.”

                Tamlen chuckled, not at Merrill’s words but at something about to come. _You both can stay and watch._ Mahariel heard his voice in her mind, and before she could hear his words actually spoken, she slapped a hand over Tamlen’s mouth.

                “He’s only teasing, Merrill. The four of us have much to discuss.”

                For Tamlen’s part, he wasn’t eager to shake off her hand. Mahariel felt a smile against her palm, soft and warm. Reaction was the fuel to any teasing, and the lack of it would douse the fire. But half of Mahariel wanted to play into Tamlne’s game - since he seemed content to not speak, then she would see to it that his mouth was kept shut. If only Fenarel and Merrill did not look to her so expectantly. With a deep breath, Mahariel turned to face her friends, both hands on her lap.

                “I say no.”

                Three pairs of eyes squinted at Tamlen.

                Mahariel was the one to break the silence. “I haven’t said anything.”

                “But I’ve seen this before,” Tamlen said, crossing his arms. “And I say no.”

                “Oh!” Merrill brought her hands together, tucking them under her smile. “Are you able to see the future now? Is that what you’re dreaming about?”

                Tamlen rolled his eyes. “Don’t I wish. No, I meant, the last time Mahariel called for a ‘discussion’ she left for the Korcari Wilds.”

                A pause as the gears in Merrill’s mind whirred. Mahariel took the chance to take control of the conversation. “I’m not going anywhere. That’s not what this is about.”

                That raised Tamlen’s eyebrows, his half-parted lips indicated that the reaction was more in relief than surprise. Fenarel watched on, fingers drumming on his chin.  Merrill looked like she might fall over the way she leaned forward to listen to whatever Mahariel had to say. And so, she decided to be blunt.

                “Namassa plans on retiring; she appointed Varanar as Head of Guard, and me as Lead Hunter.”

                One and a half heartbeat of wide-eyed silence answered her announcement. Then the tent erupted in applause and cheers and pats on the back. With the series of ‘That’s wonderful!’, ‘Well deserved, lethallan’, and ‘It’s about time’, Mahariel almost thought the entire clan was in the tent with her.

                She raised her hands again, this time to ward of a pet on the head form Fenarel. She caught his wrist and said, “I’m not taking the position.”

                “Why not?” Merril asked.

                “Don’t you want it?” Fenarel, head cocked with a frown.

                “Does this have anything to do with your vallaslin?” This from Tamlen. His eyes tracked her face, wide and bright with certainty despite the question in his voice. His fingers, dangling as his arm rested on his bent knee, twitched without his notice.

                Mahariel’s shoulders dropped, letting go of Fenarel’s wrist so he could sit back down. “It’s not that I don’t want the position, but I think it’s not the right time for me. There are others who are better suited at the moment.” Her eyes flicked to Fenarel without her permission. And the latter caught the look.

                “Lethallan,” Fenarel began, a ghostly smile on his lips, “the role of Lead Hunter was yours the moment master Namassa took you as her apprentice. What other reason does she have to train you personally? It’s only made official now.”

                Mahariel found that she could not hold his eyes for long. “You’ve always dreamed of being the Lead Hunter.”

                “Head Warrior,” Tamlen interrupted, propping his head on his palm. “He wanted to be Head Warrior. I suppose you could still be one, lethallin. If the master can split guard and hunting duties, maybe she can be talked into assigning someone to oversee both.”

                Fenarel laughed at that – head back, eyes crinkled, hands on his belly. “You obviously do not talk to her often. I appreciate the thought, little brother, but I doubt it will ever happen.”

                “Well,” Merrill said, now laying on her stomach as she turned the potted plant around and around to look at the flowers. “If, say, Mahariel resigns and nominates Fenarel, he could be the Lead Hunter instead.”

                Mahariel smiled at the First and sent her a mental thank you. Her gratitude wilted, however, as she raised her eyes at Fenarel and was met with his pursed lips. How many times in her childhood did she ask to borrow his sword, only for him to give her the very same expression, followed by “when you’re older, lethallan.”

                “She assigned the role to you, lethallan,” Fenarel said with a shrug.

                “She also told me if I could nominate a better-”

                “But there isn’t one.”

                Mahariel gasped at Tamlen’s words, whirling on him with raised eyebrows. Even Merrill’s eyes were wide with surprise.

                “What? It’s the truth,” Tamlen continued. “I am prone to impulsive decisions and the wolfing here has even less grace than I do. He’d scare the game away.”

                Her jaw dropped, ready to chide him for his harsh words, but Fenarel’s chuckle halted the rebuking.

                “I hope you are not as brash with Mahariel as you are with me, Tamlen,” Fenarel joked, as if his skills as a hunter were not slighted. Perhaps he didn’t take it too seriously; but Mahariel had yet to meet someone who did not take pride in their abilities. He brushed a hand through his hair as he looked her in the eyes. “He does have a point, though. The way I see it, it is only you who is against the appointment, Mahariel.”

                Merrill snapped an arm up in the air. “I’m against it. If Mahariel doesn’t want it, then she should be able to refuse.”

                Three pairs of eyes homed in on Mahariel, and she felt her brow crease. It never was a question of her wish; she wanted it, of course she did. This was the purpose of waking up before sunrise since she was twelve; this was the reason she kept holding onto the wooden swords despite the blisters on her palms and the tearing of the skin around her nails, this was the red dot she put in front of herself each time her feet would stop moving. She left her clan, left Tamlen, so she could be the best she could to protect her people. She could never lead and guard her family the way her father had, but she could do it as her mother did.

                “I want it.” Her voice came soft, unclaimed by the heat in her blood or the force of her ideals.

                “You really do?” Merrill asked, her eyes flicking about for a crack in Mahariel’s face.

                She nodded. “Yes.”

                “Then discussion over.” Merrill slapped her hands together as if to dust off her palms after a long afternoon of plowing. She rose on her knees and shimmied toward Mahariel, arms outstretched. “Congratulations again, lethallan. The clan is in good hands.”

                Mahariel returned her hug with a firm arm around the shoulder.

                “We should celebrate!” Merrill said as she pulled back. “Oh, but not tonight. The Keeper asked me to check on little Dethalian.”

                “I heard he was already wobbling around, being a menace to Elder Cygan’s books,” Tamlen said over a yawn.

                “He calls hahren Namassa _babae_ , and Elder Cygan _mamae_ ,” Fenarel added with a chuckle.

                “Well then he’s got it backwards!”

                Mahariel found herself smiling, the knots in her shoulders loosned. “Yes, Merrill. That he does.”

                As the First stood, using her staff to pull herself to her feet, Fenarel uncrossed his legs as well. He reached under his cot and pulled out the pile of his leather greaves and armbraces. Merrill handed him his breastplate from the chair before she slipped out the tent. Tamlen rose to his feet to buckle his friend into the gear.

                “Well,” Fenarel said as Tamlen secured the last strap. “Maybe you can give me better patrol times when you do the scheduling, Mahariel. I’m most alert early in the morning, remember.”

                She scoffed. “Nothing is set yet, lethallin.”

                He laughed at that, rapping his knuckles on his helm. “We both know it is. Anyway, feel free to stay the night here. I won’t be back till morning.” He strode to the tent’s partition, stopped, glanced over his shoulder. “And Tamlen, our agreement still stands. Even if it is Mahariel.”

                Tamlen swept a pillow and chucked it at Fenarel’s back, which only made the latter laugh as he ducked out of the tent. To Mahariel’s amusement, a splattering of red spread across Tamlen’s cheeks.

                “Agreement?”

                His eyes snapped to her, nose scrunched. “Please don’t ask.”

                “I already did.”

                Groaning, he retrieved the pillow and dropped it on Fenarel’s cot before he took his place next to Mahariel. “You don’t want to know.”

                She raised an eyebrow. “The more you delay, the more embarrassing it will be.”

                He cast his gaze on the flowers, his fingers pulled at the thread loosened from the hem of his trousers. “We have rules...when bringing someone else into the tent.”

                Blood rushed up Mahariel’s neck. Images fought to bloom in her mind, but she shook them off before they could form anything she would regret imagining. “You needed rules for that?”

                Laughing, Tamlen threw his head back on the edge of his cot. “One incident is enough to require a whole page of them.”

                “What incident?” The words came out of her mouth on their own. Driven by jealousy or a twisted curiosity, she wasn’t sure.

                Tamlen smirked. “During the last arlathvhen, Fenarel-”

                Again, Mahariel slapped a hand over his mouth. “Don’t tell me anything about Fenarel’s business.”

                Eyes glinting, Talmen took her hand, turned it palm down, and kissed her knuckles. “What about mine?”

                Ah, yes. His business with…that hunter with the shaved head. “What was her name again?”

                Blue eyes cast about around the tent for clarification. “Is this a trick question?”

                “Creators, no. Merrill told me her name, she was from her old clan. I just don’t remember.”

                “Well! Then maybe it’s best if you forgot.”

                She frowned at that. “No. Not knowing will nag me worse than Ashalle had when I was a child.”

                Tamlen pursed his lips. Mahariel had to wonder whether he got the habit from Fenarel, or if it was the other way around. And when had the mannerism started? She blinked as Tamlen began waving his hands as he talked.

                “…not important at this point,” he was saying, his voice tittering on the words. “It was years ago anyway.”

                “Do you remember?”

                That stopped his rambling and gesticulating. “I…yes?”

                Mahariel slipped the blanket off her shoulders, one hand reached for Tamlen’s shoulder. As he leaned back, against the cot, Mahariel towered over him and gripped both his shoulders and swung one leg over his lap. His eyebrows rose, a hint of  smile at the corners of his lips when they parted. Keeping her face blank, Mahariel settled on his lap, arms draped on his shoulders, fingers trailing the short hair at the back of his neck.

                “Maybe it’s best if you forgot,” she whispered.

                Tamlen’s hands flew to her waist, his grin ear to ear. “Forgot what?”

                “Oh? You learn fast.”

                “Why thank you.” He gave her a squeeze. “Will you stay here tonight?”

                Mahariel laughed, shaking her head. “And so very direct.”

                He pushed off the bed, arms wrapping around her. “Please? The nights are getting cold and I need someone to cuddle with.”

                The decision was already made the moment Fenarel left for patrol. But Mahariel could not resist a good teasing. She cocked her head, humming a thoughtful tune. “Why don’t you ask…oh what was her name?”

                “Fenedhis.” His head thumped against the cot. Mahariel pressed her lips together to keep her smile contained as he lifted his head again. “I never cuddled her, nor do I ever want to cuddle with someone else who isn’t-”

                The last word was crushed between their lips. Surprise kept him from responding at first, but once Mahariel cupped his face in her hand he raised his head to her and returned the kiss. Brief though it was, it left her whole body tingling.

                “I was joking.” More of a sigh than words.

                His lashes brushed her cheekbones when he glance down at her lips, then back again to her eyes. “How cruel.”

                “I’m sorry.” She leaned closer, the tip of her nose grazing his cheek.

                His thumbs massaged circles against her hips. “Good try, but it’s not enough.”

                “I’ll stay the night.”

                He pulled his head back, eyes scanning her face for a joke. There was none. “You’re forgiven.”

                Mahariel chuckled. She should really talk to Tamlen about his predictability. She jumped to her feet and pulled Tamlen along. “Should we push the cots together for-”

                “Ah-ah.” Tamlen held up a finger. “No touching the other’s bed.”

                She propped a hand on her hip. “Rule number one?”

                “Two, actually.” He raised an arm in invitation.

                Mahariel plopped on Tamlen’s cot and drew the wool blankets up her legs. “What’s number one?”

                “Make sure that the tent is solely yours for the night.”

                “That makes sense.”

                Chuckling, Tamlen unhooked the lantern from the center pole of the tent and placed it on the ground with its wick turned low. “Are you going to ask what other rules we made?”

                “No. I think I can guess the rest.”

                As Tamlen slid under the sheets, Mahariel turned to him and threw an arm over his chest. “Just to be clear: I’m not holding your past relations against you.”

                He pulled her against him, limbs tangled, so close that his breath stirred the hair tucked behind her ear. “Thank you, Vie. And know that feel the same for you.”

 

Merrill shook Mahariel from her cot days later. She spent a few seconds looking at her in confusion and surprise before the mage harried her out of the aravel and into the misty morning. There was a bundle under the mages’ arm, wedged tight against her side so that she could carry her staff with one hand while pulling Mahariel along with the other. She recognized her towel, and her orange bar of soap.

                “Isn’t the water cold?” Mahariel asked as she pushed a bough out of her face. They were rather deep in the forest now, almost to the border of their patrol.

                “Hm? Oh no. We’re not going to _that_ spring. We’re going to the one Dedona found last night. This one has hot water.”

                A hot spring? Mahariel doubted it, but she did hope for it to be true. She needed a proper bath. In fact, the whole clan needed a proper bath after trekking through soil turned mud by their halla. “I assume there will be other people already there.”

                “You assume right.” She clapped her hands.

                “And I assume this is the celebration you were talking about.”

                “You assume right again!” Mahariel guessed that Merrill would have thrown her arms up in the air were it not for her baggage. “You’re not as cranky as I thought you’d be.”

                “You thought I’d be cranky?”

                She looked over her shoulder with a rueful smile. “Well, you looked like you ate a whole lemon at the night of the naming.”

                “Oh, that.” Before Namassa called her to the bonfire and named her Lead Hunter, Mahariel had indeed bit on a pickled olive. Her sour expression however was more from the reminder that other hunters might not follow her lead due to her age and her lack of vallaslin. Only did the churning of her stomach pass when cheers from the clan for her and for Varanar rang her ears.

                “The hunters prepared this for you, you know. Well, the female ones anyway.”

                Mahariel smiled. “And what did the male ones prepare?”

                Merrill shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Tamlen wouldn’t tell me.”

                Mahariel blinked to make sure she heard right. “Tamlen is planning something for me?”

                The pop of Merrill’s eyes and the quick turn of her head was the confirmation Mahariel needed. Her breath came a little faster after learning the secret. Knowing Tamlen, whatever the secret was must involve a little mischief; some sneaking around, a tall ruin to climb or maybe a cave to explore. Perhaps it will be just the two of them. She hoped that would be the case.

                The spring was more of a series of pools cascading down the side of a rocky drop towards a hundred thousand treetops, no more than tips of needles from the height. Just like Merrill said, the younger female hunters were already soaked in the dark bubbling pools. Dedona had her arms outstretched on the rim of the closest pool, and she waved as they approached. “Here comes our leader!”

                Heads turned at her voice, and slowly, all seven hunters gathered in front of Mahariel.

                “Might we hear a speech?” Ineria, a few years older than Fenarel, making her the oldest among the current group, called from her spot on a half-submerged rock. The water had long crept up her chemise and the white fabric clung to her skin.

                “Aren’t you cold?” Mahariel asked her instead.

                “Must you always answer a question with another question?” she retorted, though a smile played on her face.

                “Didn’t you just do exactly that?”

                “Alright, that’s enough.” Dedona splashed water onto Mahariel’s feet. Or tried to, at least. It missed her and only succeeded in darkening the stone a step away from her toes. “You two come on in.”

                Merrill didn’t need to be told twice. Her robe was off her shoulders by the time the invitation was given. Mahariel followed suit, slipping off her tunic first then her leggings. A few whistles rang out, from Sareen and Aviel judging from the twin grins they wore.

                “Take it all off!” This from Nulla. The darkness of her skin made her yellow eyes gleam brighter than the sun. And they certainly shone with mirth as she called for Mahariel to remove all her clothing.

                Laughing, Mahariel complied. She unlaced the soft leather around her chest first, making Merrill hide behind her hands and the others to cheer louder. She slipped out of her undergarment and draped it on a branch along with her clothes. Her audience applauded, even Merrill, and she graced them with a bow. The air proved to be colder than originally thought however, so Mahariel dove into the water.

                “No better leader than a fearless and daring hunter,” Sareen said, performing a slow clap.

                “Emphasis on daring,” said Meyan in between bouts of laughter.

                “Yes, yes.” Mahariel said, waving a hand at the jokes. She sat on the rock bed, the water lapped at her shoulders and her hair floated about her.

                “Is it always like this with you hunters?” Merrill whispered as she drifted closer.

                “Not always,” Mahariel answered, lowering her voice as well. “We don’t always get to huddle around in one place all at once, not worrying about the safety of the clan. But when we do, yes, we tend to get…festive.”

                Merrill giggled, a blush blooming on her face. “I like it. It’s more fun than my studies.”

                A jet of water hit Mahariel on the mouth just as she was about to reply. She coughed the water out, thumping her chest as she glared at Meyan. “Night watch for you.”

                “Wait, hold on a second!”

                Before long all nine of them slapped water at each other’s faces. Merrill squealed in delight as often as she spat water, but Mahariel was glad to see her having fun – even though it was a little rough. Mahariel herself was glad for the break, even more so with the feeling of the layers of sweat and dirt peel from her skin. Eventually, their energy was spent, and they sat in a circle, red-faced and beaming. Meyan still sprouted a chuckle or two, but for the most part, the springs had gone quiet. Then came a question.

                “O great leader, are you punishing Tamlen for something?” Dedona asked.

                Avial cracked an eye open, tilting her head on a rolled towel to get a better look at Mahariel.

                “Of course not. Why would you even think that?”

                Dedona shrugged, rippling the water. “I saw him with June’s box the other day. He came very close to hacking it with his sword. He said it was a gift from you.”

                “Huh.” Mahariel sunk lower into the water. “I didn’t know he was having that much trouble.”

                Sareen laughed. “Doesn’t look like you’re going to help him.”

                It was Mahariel’s turn to shrug. “He’ll solve the puzzle. Eventually.”

                The conversations lulled afterwards, and Mahariel thought that she could have a nap while she soaked. Alas, Nulla broke the silence.

                “Are you planning to bond with him?”

                Mahariel fought to keep her eyes closed and keep her face neutral; She could explain away the redness of her neck and face on the hot water if it came to pointing out the obvious. “Isn’t that a little private?”

                “Lethallan,” Ineria said, and Mahariel felt the trap close on her. “You stripped naked in front of us all.”

                “Are you saying you didn’t like it?”

                “I liked it," Merrill said, which got a chuckle from Mahariel. "It was unexpected, but it was fun,” 

                Teranaya, younger than Merrill and even more soft-spoken, raised her hands. “Perhaps we should stop prying.”

                Although she said that, Mahariel felt the eyes on her. Anticipation clung to air thicker that the mist from the springs. Finally, she opened her eyes and sat straight. “What?”

                “Nothing,” the seven hunters said in unison, which obviously meant there was something.

                “I might know,” Merrill said.

                Mahariel turned to her. “Continue.”

                “Okay. They want to know who made the first move. There are daggers and jewelry at stake, last I checked.”

                Incredible. Really. Mahariel could not believe how much went on behind her back without her picking up the scent. Either the whole clan was good at hiding things pertaining to herself, or she was lacking in self-awareness.

                “And did you place a bet too?”

                Merrill sighed, shook her head. “I wanted to, but it wouldn’t be fair since I’m too close to you and Tamlen. So, I was made moderator.”

                Now that was a pity. Merrill would have asked them right out and Mahariel would have known about the bet earlier. They could have manipulated the results and won unknown prizes.

                “And now all parties are ready to know the results?”

                A collective ‘yes’ resounded. Laughter and yelling yanked at Mahariel's arms, looking to tear her in half. Considering recent merriment, however, she gave herself to the former. She’d rather not spoil a good day; though perhaps she can’t help to sour the day for some of them.

                “I made the first move.” With a clear view of all eight faces Mahariel knew exactly who won and lost. Grins from Dedona and Sareen, and a whoop from Meyen. Avial, Ineria, Nulla, and Teranaya had various degrees of surprise on their faces. Mahariel looked to Merrill who had been smiling from the start. “And what would have been your bet?”

                “You, of course.” She laughed behind her hand. “Tamlen didn’t even realize what was happening. Fenarel was also on your side.”

                “What?”

                “Oh, he wasn’t allowed to bet, just like me. But he said it was obviously you.”

                Sighing, Mahariel sank deeper until the water tickled the bottom of her nose. As the hunters and Merrill laughed, boasted, and joked, she couldn’t keep her giggles from bubbling up.

 

That evening Mahariel and Tamlen went for a stroll. Not a stolen moment from patrolling, but a genuine, leisurely stroll. There were advantages to being named Lead Hunter, after all. Of course, both still had their armor and weapons, but at least they didn’t feel rushed; they weren’t supposed to be somewhere other than with each other. They headed east, past the hot springs and lower down the terrain. Wiry trees fought against the incline, holding onto the ground with long knobby roots. Leaves painted the forest floor in flames more than it did the branches. Shards of black rocks poked from under leaves and moss, sharp enough to scratch at the soles of their feet.

                “We should have worn boots,” Mahariel said as she vaulted over a black slab of stone.

                “Remind me when we come back here.”

                Mahariel turned to him. “We’re coming back?”

                A shrug. “If you wish to.”

                He stretched out his hand, indicating her to keep going. As Mahariel slid down another slab, each one larger than the previous, she was greeted by a black maw riddled with stone teeth growing from its roof. Rust colored veins ran down from the teeth, looking more vivid against the dark stone of the mountain the cave grew from.

                “What do you think is inside there?” Tamlen asked as he pressed to her side.

                Mahariel grinned up at him and repeated the words he so often told her. “One way to find out.”

                Tamlen led the way between the pillars jutting from the ground. Surrounded by spiked stone formations, Tamlen insisted on walking slow - a suggestion Mahariel was surprised coming from him. Echoes of stones they accidentally kicked painted a wider room than their firestones etched in blue swaths of light. They walked on for five minutes, not talking and not letting go of the other’s hand. Then blue globs began to appear on the ceiling, just a splattering at first. Then a few clumps, then strings. In a matter of minutes, there was a network of the luminescent clusters, so thick that the firestones were no longer needed.

                Tendrils draped from the ceiling, which glittered with the stuff. As Tamlen neared a string that reached past his nose, his eyes flashed white-blue. “They’re…webs?”

                Mahariel took a step back. “Spider?”

                “No, no.” A smile. “Some sort of insect. Or larvae.”

                Now a shiver crept up Mahariel’s neck and she swiped her hand on her nape. “Don’t touch anything. And don’t tell me you weren’t about to because you were definitely thinking about it.”

                “Aw,” he said with a matching pout, then Ow!” after Mahariel punched his side.

                A glance over her shoulder confirmed that sunlight could no longer reach where they had gone. If they were to be turned around…Well, they had better _not_ get turned around.  She reached out to anchor her left hand on the wall, only to stumble as her hand kept reaching. Her fall was rested by a hewn niche and a clatter of knob-shaped _things_. The commotion as white objects rattled to the ground jolted Tamlen from his wide-eyed examination of the luminescent webs. White-blue light bloomed soon as he plucked a firestone from a pouch. Mahariel, both hands pressed to the wall – rough under the right hand, smooth and deeper under the left, pushed steady breaths between her lips as Tamlen approached. His eyes were cast to the ground, and his slack jaw made Mahariel follow his gaze. Around her feet were short, thin sticks that shone bright white under the light. Seven could be counted in the immediate ring, but from the noise they had made as Mahariel knocked them down, more were clearly hidden in shadow. The more the firelight revealed, the warmer her left hand felt. Swallowing a sigh, she swiped a thumb against whatever her palm was resting on.

                A bump. Then two. Between them a thin line etched a few grains deep. She wrapped her fingers around the object, head cocked as if listening for the snip of a trap. All there was to be heard was her blood in her ears and little clinks as Tamlen crouched over the fallen items.

                “A book?” Mahariel said the same time as Tamlen exclaimed, “Bones.”

                “What?” Again, both at once.

                Mahariel pulled a soft leather rectangle from the niche her hand had stumbled into just as Tamlen held up a finger bone, bent at the joint so that it looked as though it beckoned to her.

                “Okay,” Tamlen said, breathless. “Yours is better.”

                Still, he held onto his bone as he came closer to inspect what exactly Mahariel had found. With the light brought directly over the item, scratchings on the cover revealed themselves under a film of dust. One of its longer sides were bound tightly by thick threads unusually free of tears and frays given the thickness of the dust coating. A turn here and there proved the item to be a note or journal of some sort, for crisp yellow pages appeared melded into an inch block due to the press of the bindings for who knew how long.

                Flipping the book back to the front, Mahariel grabbed the hem of Tamlen’s cloak and wiped it along the cover.

                “Thanks,” Tamlen griped, yanking his cloak from her already loose fingers.

                “I think it’s a script,” Mahariel said, squinting at the scratches.

                Tamlen leaned in, breath warm on her cheek. “It could be elvhen.”

                “And what makes you say that?” She turned to raise an eyebrow at him. For someone who had course-looking hair that refused to curl no matter the humidity, Tamlen’s eyebrows were rather fine and gradually angled. More pliable to bunch when he frowned, as he did then. And the arch of them, shallow yet sharp, alluded more to his mischief than his sweetness. Much like his down-turned lips. His nose softened the ridges of his cheekbones and the point of his chin, however; a little rounded as it was on the tip.

                “…millenniums even. Look, that one looks like the letter- are you listening?”

                Mahariel blinked, having found herself nose-to-nose with Tamlen. “No.”

                “Somethings never change.” His lips quirked. He straightened up, one hand disappearing under his cloak. It reemerged with velvet-bound pages. Mahariel eyed the booklet as Tamlen twirled it in the air with a flourish and a bow. “For you.”

                She passed the ancient journal in exchange for the gift. The softness of the cover against her fingers drew a smile on her face; the thickness of the fibers in the pages painted her cheeks red. “Don’t tell me you made this yourself.”

                The words were meant as a light joke – delivered by the laughter in her voice. Yet Tamlen said nothing. The silence made her look up, and what she saw raced her pulse. A soft smile, a glint in blue eyes.

                “Tamlen?”

                A shrug. “Why don’t you make your first masterpiece? You’ve got a beautiful view here.” He swept an arm at the network of lights on the cave roof.

                “I didn’t bring-”

                Tamlen slipped a roll of leather from his belt and offered it to her. Shaking her head, Mahariel untied the lace and unrolled the strip to find four graphite sticks tucked into pouches sewn on the inside.

                “How long were you planning this?” She asked

                Another shrug. “As long as it takes to bind a book.”

                She hugged her sketchbook to her chest. “This isn’t really about me being appointed to Lead Hunter, is it?”

                “No,” Tamlen answered simply. “it isn’t.”

                "You’ll spoil me with these gifts.” She tapped the ear-cuff he had given her on her eighteenth birthday, then ran a hand down the brown velvet. A thought bubbled in her mind: though his gifts were practical leisure items, it didn’t escape her that they particularly catered to her kind of leisure.

                “That doesn’t sound like a problem to me.”

                She laughed then, excited by her new book, and giddy at the affection displayed by Tamlen. Finding words to be stilted, Mahariel reached up and pressed a kiss on his cheek. He smiled. Then laughed as Mahariel brought out her own firestone and settled on the flattest surface she could find with her new sketchbook on her lap.


	35. 8429 FA

It took a single bleat to stop Sabrae clan on its tracks. A rearing of a halla, followed with the stamping of hooves by the entire herd; and just like that the aravels jerked to a stop, creaking their complaints at ancient trees which overlooked the passing of the Dalish among them.

                Mahariel blew two whistles which were echoed down the line before the crates could even stop swaying on the aravel roofs. Farther up the line Mahariel spotted a bright red head pushing against the now-slowing parade of clan members. Even farther, in front of the unmoving herd, scouts turned heel and rejoined the main body. Tamlen was among the first hunters to reach the Keeper’s group ahead of the caravan, and as he did he jerked his head up – almost instinctively - and caught Mahariel’s eye. A shake of his head made her frown.

                The tip of the clan’s tail, Fenarel’s squad, pushed into the clearing and shepherded the rest of the clan between the aravels. A gesture from him sent Ineria and the others to form an arch between the clan and the woods. Mahariel swung herself over the railing, rappelled down its side with the sail’s rigging. Before her toes touched wet grass a pair of hands held her by the waist and eased her to the ground.

                “Can you feel it?” Fenarel whispered, eyes darting around the forest.

                Mahariel nodded. They edged their way to the frontline, all the while signaling hunters to enforce weaker spots. As she sent Sareen up a pine, the tingle brushed her nape again. Gooseflesh raised along her arms and a faint ringing began within her skull. No wonder the halla remained silent and unmoving; it seemed a snort from them could tear the Veil.

                Hushed discussions greeted Mahariel and Fenarel as they approached the Keeper. Varanar and Tamlen stood left of Keeper Marethari, Merrill to her right, and Maren in front of them.

                “…trust you, Keeper, but they are quite insistent on stopping here,” the halla keeper was saying, an arm out to indicate the largest of their halla, the leader of the herd.

                Keeper Marethari’s eyes flicked to Mahariel, then Fenarel, then at the faces turned to her from between the carts or under trees. “It is not safe to linger in such a place so close to the Beyond. Try again, Maren, please.”

                Maren took a breath, nodded, then approached the halla, Ghila’lin, with her palms upward.

                “We need to check the grounds in the meantime,” Mahariel said, turning to the Keeper and Varanar. “It’s too quiet.”

                The others looked around, the creases on their brows deepening as the silence settled on them.

                “Even the wind is hushed,” Tamlen murmured.

                Merrill, eyes wide and aimed far ahead of her, cocked her head as though still listening for a sign of wildlife. She raised an arm, a finger pointed in the direction of her eyes. “There is something strange over there. As if…as if the Veil is being pulled.”

                “I’ll investigate it.” Perhaps Mahariel had said the words too fast, too eager, for Tamlen lifted an eyebrow at her.

                Upon Keeper Marethari’s nod, the hunters set to dividing patrol groups. Varanar were to stay with the main camp while Mahariel gave Fenarel south, Junar north, and Tamlen west.

                “Take four other hunters,” Mahariel kept talking despite the frown she received from Tamlen. “You decide who and how to split if the need arises. Keep low and quiet. And let’s keep the sails in sight.”

                Mahariel expected Tamlen to stay behind after her string of orders ended. Instead, he merely nodded and followed Fenarel beyond the aravels to gather their team. She smiled; here she thought Tamlen would try to persuade her to take him on her team.

                Once Mahariel found Sareen, Chandan, and Dedona she pulled Merrill aside to ask her to join. Her lips parted with a soft pop, eyebrows shot toward her hairline.

                “You would want me there?”

                “You’re the expert on magic, Merrill. Of course, I want you with me.” A pause. “I’ll talk to the Keeper.”

                “Oh, yes, that would be lovely. I’ll come with you.”

                Before they could get within five paces in front of the Keeper, the clan leader already had her arms crossed on her chest. Whether it was due to Maren’s report or because of seeing Merrill with Mahariel was unclear. Noticing the Keeper’s attention had shifted, Maren also turned her eyes to them.

                “I take it,” the Keeper said, “that you are scouting too, Merrill?”

                The First nodded. “I’d like to see what is causing the distortion. If you’d allow me, that is.”

                “I need her guidance, Keeper,” Mahariel added. “I don’t want to stay too long away from camp.”

                Keeper Marethari pressed her lips in a smile. “That would be a first. Very well, Merrill will know what to look for.”

                They bowed as thanks and joined the rest of the team waiting by a fallen tree so covered with moss that it its roots struggled to claw its way out of the earth’s grassy belly. Sareen brightened at seeing Merrill by Mahariel’s side, no doubt glad to have a mage by their side. Without preamble the five of them stepped into denser woods.

 

                Contrary to what Mahariel expected, the trees paced themselves farther from each other the deeper her group delved into the Brecilian Forest. The branches, blessed by the lingering spring with thick vibrant leaves, arched skyward and reached for neighbors. What sunlight filtered through failed to ease the coldness only a virgin forest could emanate. Mahariel slowed their pace as the gaps between trees increased not only by a dozen steps but by yards. A touch on her shoulder took her attention to Sareen and her outstretched arm.

                “A dip on the ground, across the clearing.”

                Mahariel frowned at that. Firstly, she could not see any signs of hollows across the clearing or otherwise. Then again, Sareen’s eye sight level was higher. Second, the clearing they found themselves staring at could easily be an acre wide uninterrupted target area.

                “Where is this anomaly, Merrill?”

                She pointed left without hesitation. “Only a few feet away, near the trees. I can feel the vibrations.”

                Mahariel strained her ears for a rustle, a snap of a twig, a rasp of cloth. Nothing. Not even the wind, as Tamlen said. She nodded at Sareen. “Chandan and Dedona will go with you. The grass is too tall for my liking; step carefully and watch each other’s backs.”

                Solemn nods from all three, with an additional, “As you say, _rajelan_ ,” from Dedona. She turned her back and crouched after Sareen and Chandan onto the clearing before Mahariel could tell her to stop calling her that.

                A giggle from Merrill made Mahariel raise an eyebrow at the mage.  “You _are_ their leader, you know,” the former said. “Why not let them call you that? I don’t see the harm. Besides, it feels nice on the tongue. _Rajelan_.”

                They walked along the wood-line, an eye and an ear out toward their friends crossing the meadow. “I already let them call me by my family name. Let us at least stick with that.”

                Merrill hummed at the statement then twirled around, Mahariel reeled back as the jewel on her staff zipped in front of her face. “Why do let them call you ‘Mahariel’? It is a lovely name, but it’s not _your_ name.”

                “Oh? but it is my name.” Mahariel laughed. She twirled the blade on her right hand, feeling the sword right itself on her palm, listening to the wheeze of air as it was cut. “I knew myself as Mahariel first before Vie. The late Keeper’s only child. It was even my first word, you know?” Or at least that was what Ashalle had told her. She was unsure now, whether to accept the story she was given, or to question its truth.

                She didn’t realize she was waiting for an answer from Merrill – a laugh or a gasp of surprise, a question, something - until the forest absorbed the echoes of her voice. Merrill just stood in front of her, back like a rod. It was then that Mahariel caught the shapes melded into the oak ahead of them. The bark twisted around two identical spheres, bulging at the top before tapering off into sharp points as trunk separated into branches. Ridges flowed down from the dark indents like hardened wax, their tips sharp as teeth.

                Mahariel stepped closer, then the whole image popped from the tree. A skull.

                Both elves gasped a name: Elgar’nan.

                Merrill raised a hand to it, her eyes fluttering close as her lips moved around a whispered spell. The more Mahariel stared at the tree the ringing from the back of her mind flooded her ears until the high pitch was all she heard. She screwed her eyes shut, pressed the heel of her palms on her ears. A scream built within her throat, a plea for Merrill to stop whatever she was doing, but the pressure in her skull grated at her teeth and all she could do was clench her jaw against it. White lights burst behind her eyelids. Iron coated her tongue. Fire tore her scalp. A thump, then a blow to her stomach.

                Emeralds fluttered from the sky, flickering gold as they twirled, feather-like, toward earth. A piece touched Mahariel’s cheek, soft and light. She turned her head and a blade of grass tickled her nose. Another emerald fell in front of her eyes. No, not emerald. A leaf. Frowning, she rolled to her side and heaved herself with an arm, supporting herself on a hip. It was only then that she noticed the pair of feet behind her, the nails painted bright red.

                “Lethallan?”

                Mahariel raised her eyes to Merrill’s voice, did it too fast, and pitched back. Now she stared up at the grimacing face of the First as she bent over her.

                “ _What_ was that?”

                “A barrier, to isolate the scratch in the Veil. I can’t heal it by myself, so I had to isolate it until the Keeper arrives. But the rebound…”

                Apologies ran from her lips, one word over the next in such a speed that Mahariel could no longer register their meaning. She held an arm up instead, and Merrill immediately pulled her up.

                “We should-”

                Three figures burst out of the field, weapons drawn, and Mahariel didn’t bother to finish her thought. She raised a hand -  the other braced against her stomach – and signaled the other hunters to ease. Their weapons remained unsheathed, but at least they slowed to a trot.

                Sareen was the first to reach them, eyes furtively flicking down to Mahariel’s abdomen. Or rather, she tried to be subtle about it. Sighing, Mahariel stood straighter, caging a wince, and dropped her hands to the side. Mahariel had thought that Sareen, or even Chandan or Dedona, would ask her what had happened – her face was sure to be pale if the coldness she felt on her fingertips were any indication, and she couldn’t seem to open her eyes all the way. The three newcomers, however, were focused on the carving on the tree. Brows crunched, questioning looks at Merrill, yet no slack-jaws, no wide eyes.

                “What did you find?” Mahariel finally asked.

                Sareen met her eyes then. “My patron, Sylaise.”

                Merrill’s eyes popped. “Creators.”

                Mahariel chuckled at Merrill’s interjection. How apt it was. But her amusement quickly melted. With certainty, she already knew what the others would find. Or have already found. After centuries of praying to deaf ears, it was almost a cruel joke to stumble upon remnants of their past here, in a forest that came closest to being a home for Mahariel. What irony it was, that the Sabrae Clan would meet the Creators in no other place than the Brecilian forest.


End file.
